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BY 


ALBANY DE FONBLANQUE, 



BOSTON: 



ESTES & LAURIAT, 

301 Washington Street, 

Opposite Old South. 


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COPYRIGHT, 

ESTES & LA.TJEIA.T, 
1876 . 


0 


A FAMILY TREE 


boob: x. 

THE ROOTS OF IT. 


CHAPTER I. 

HOW MARTHA DENYS WAS TRIED FOR 
WITCHCRAFT. 

The roots of it go down two hundred 
and sixty-four years, into what are some- 
times called “ the good old times.” An 
old Queen, who had reigned like a king— 
and a bold one — was not long dead ; and a 
middle-aged king, who was no better than 
an old woman, governed merrie England 
in her stead. But he was a learned prince, 
and a cunning. He could talk you Latin 
by the hour. He would have made an ex- 
cellent President of a School Board if there 
had been such things in his time. About 
the period whereof I write he gave up his 
mind to put down the smoking of tobacco, 
and to eradicate the curse of witchcraft 
from his dominions. 

Alas ! And were there witches in those 
“good old times?” The learned king said 
so. Infallibility at Rome said so. Parlia- 
ment said so. The Glorious Reformation 
had nothing to say to the contrary. There 
were witches in good sooth— dreadful crea- 
tures, who sold themselves to the devil, 
and worshipped him, under the form of a 
goat, at their unholy sabbaths. They flew 
about on broomsticks smeared with the fat 
of unbaptised infants. They afflicted man 
and beast with diseases, blighted crops, 
spoiled milk in the churn, and beer in the 
vat ; changed themselves, upon occasions, 
into rats, and cats, and bats, and toads, 
and committed other enormities too nu- 
merous to detail. One of them, finding 
the orthodox conveyance inconvenient, 
(perhaps it was not up to her weight) used 
to change her daughter into a pony, and 


have her shod by the ; well, I don’t 

like to repeat the bad word, so we will say 
by the goaty who appears to have not been 
a skilled farrier, as the poor girl’s hands 
and feet were maimed. Another old lady, 
and her daughter aged nine, sold them- 
selves as aforesaid, and raised a fearful 
storm by pulling off their stockings, and 
making a lather of soap — proceedings 
which in these godless days would suggest 
nothing more reprehensible than a family 
wash ; but they knew better in the “ good 
old times,” and hanged the pair for witch- 
craft. In Germany, from first to last, one 
hundred thousand criminals expiated their 
crimes on the scaffold; and in merrie 
England we disposed of about thirty thou- 
sand before we were done with them. 
Learned judges, grave men w ho gave body, 
bone, and brain to the Common Law of 
England; jurists, whose names are house- 
hold words in the Temple and Lincoln’s 
Inn; writers, whose text books are quoted 
now with respect in our highest courts of 
justice— sat and judged these w r retches, 
and solemnly took note of the stocking- 
pulling, sud-making, and demoniacal shoe- 
ing evidence brought against them. They 
pretending all the while to be only poor 
ugly old w'omen, and the goat having the 
meanness never to interfere in their favor. 

Perhaps the strangest thing of all was, 
that many of them confessed their crimes. 
Writing whilst on circuit as a judge of 
assize in the year 1682, Lord North relates, 
“ Here have been 3 old women condemned 
for witchcraft * * * they were the 

most old, decrepid, despicable, miserable 
creatures that he (the judge who tried 
them) ever saw. A painter would have 


4 


A FAMILY TREE. 


chosen them out of the whole country for 
figures of that kind to have drawn by. 
The evidence against them was very full 
and fancifuil, but their own confessions 
exceeded it — they appeared not only weary 
of their lives, but to have a great deal of 
skill to convict themselves; their descrip- 
tion of the sucking devils with sawcer 
eyes w r as so naturall, that the jury could 
not choose but beleeve them.” 

The old lady who made the storm out 
of soap-suds confessed to being a witch, 
and so did her demoniacal sister who had 
her daughter so badly shod. She was so 
idiotic — says the chronicler — that she 
clapped her withered old hands with glee 
at the sight of the fire which was to burn 
her. 

This befel in Scotland in the year 1722, 
more than a century before the time when 
my story opens. It opens soon after the 
wise king aforesaid had published his 
“ Dsemonologie,” and Parliament had en- 
acted this law: “If any person shall use 
an invocation or conjuration of any evil 
or wicked spirit — shall entertain, employ, 
feed, or reward any evil or cursed spirit — 
take up any dead body to employ in witch- 
craft, sorcery, or enchantment, or shall 
practise, or shall exercise any sort of sor- 
cery, &c., whereby any person shall be 
killed, wasted, consumed, or lamed,” shall 
suffer death. The wise king caused a 
whole assize to be prosecuted because a 
reputed witch was acquitted ! 

So you see there must have been witches, 
and as the race has died out, let us bless 
the Providence which made our forefath- 
ers so wisely severe, so scientific, and so 
acute. 

But do not let us be puffed up with self- 
conceit. There were wise men in other 
countries. A horse was tried at Lisbon, 
in 1601, and found guilty of being posses- 
sed by the devil. It was weakly urged 
that liis mundane master had taught him 
many tricks; perhaps he ran round the 
ring as that master indicated by motion of 
whip, picked up pocket-handkerchiefs, fired 
pistols, wheeled round and round with his 
front feet on a chair, and performed oth- 
er accursed and demoniacal evolutions. 
Tricks, quotha! Was the Holy Office — 


was Infallibility to be taken in by tricks ? 
They burned that horse to death. 
***** 

There were so many witches in the year 
of grace 1610, and honest people were so 
afraid of them, that clever men, upon whom 
a portion of the king’s wisdom was shed, 
arose, and were commissioned to detect 
them and their ways. 

In the northern countries (especially in 
Lancashire) the curse of witchcraft was 
felt direfully, and consequently there was 
no lack of official witch-finders. Perhaps, 
writing in a better age, I should say that 
there were many official witch-finders, and 
consequently, no lack of witches. People 
must live ! 

Be this as it may, it is certain that the 
good town of Manchester was grievously 
afflicted in divers ways, and the reeve and 
the rector agreed that witchcraft was at 
the bottom of the troubles. In the first 
place the Medlock and the Irwell had risen 
higher than the oldest inhabitant had 
known those rivers to rise, and they had 
flooded some parts of the town. In the 
country about, sheep and oxen died; and 
a fever broke out when the waters sub- 
sided. Who could have done all this but 
the witches? 

•So said Master Wfllford, a noted witch- 
finder. He came to town specially retain- 
ed, and there was no hiding the truth from 
him. In less than a week he discovered 
the culprit, and had her down to the river, 
opposite where the old church stands, to 
“ try ” her. 

There were various ways of “trying” 
witches known in these “ good old times.” 
One was the trial by water. You tied the 
thumbs of the suspected person together, 
and flung her into the stream where it 
was deepest. If she floated, she was a 
witch; if she did not, she w r as drowned! 
There was an end of her, any way. The 
trial by water was favored by Master Will- 
ford, as being the most conclusive. The 
old woman upon whom his suspicions fell 
was duly tied, hoven into the water, and 
floated like cofk! 

“ A witch ! a witch ! ” cried the mob. 
“ Death to the witch ! ” 

And they would have stoned her to 


A FAMILY TREE. 


5 


death as she floated ; hut the witch-finder, 
calm and proud of his success, bade them 
drag her to the bank, and spare her for 
her legal doom. 

“ She will not drown, my friends,” he 
said, as they hauled her in ; “ but, in good 
sooth, she will burn ! ” 

“ To the fire with her then ! to the fire! , 
shouted the infuriated crowd. There was 
not one there who had not suffered in 
some way by the flood or the fever. 

“ Softly, softly, my masters,” said Will- 
ford. It vras his first case amongst them, 
and he wanted to show more of his wis- 
dom. “Softly; let us be sure. There be 
other tests. Ha ! what have we here ? ” 

The supposed witch had struggled so 
vigorously against her trial, that it had 
become necessary to tie her legs as well as 
her thumbs; and in the operation, the up- 
per part of her dress had been torn off her 
back, and left exposed a pair of withered 
shoulders, upon one of which the eagle 
eye of Master Willford detected a mole— a 
black mole,- with three gray hairs in it — as 
she lay fainting on the bank. 

“ What think you of this ? ” he cried, in 
triumph. “ Let us praise the Lord, for He 
has delivered the wicked into our hand. 
Hark ye, my friends! Wherever the devil 
kisseth a witch, there springetli a mark 
like unto this.” 

“ It is a mole,” said the nearest by- 
stander. 

“ Thou art a good man, Master Symes,” 
said the witch-finder, with a sigh, “and 
knowetli not the iniquity of these crea- 
tures. I tell thee it is the devil’s mark. 
How, look you; when I strike my bodkin 
into the accursed spot ” 

But before he could strike, the mob was 
divided, and he sent rolling almost into 
the river, by a tall man in a riding-dress, 
who led a handsome chestnut horse (from 
which he had just dismounted) by the 
bridle. 

“What savagery is this?” asked the 
new comer, sternly. 

“A witch! a witch, Master Hugh!” 
cried a dozen voices. 

“ ’Tis she who brought the flood ! ” 

“ She bewitched my good man ! ” 

“She lamed my sheep, curse her! ” 


“ She gave my little Jack the fever! ” 

“ Death to the witch ! ” 

And a storm of other accusations and 
threats rose from the excited crowd. 

“ Stand back ! ” cried the horseman. 
“ So, ho, Hafid ! ” (this to his horse). “Who 
proves she is a witch? ” 

“ I do,” replied Willford, pale and trem- 
bling with anger. “ Have a care. I am 
not without authority.” 

“Nor I either, sir. I am a justice of 
peace, as all here know. Again I ask who 
proves her a witch ? ” 

“ She floated. Did not she float, my 
friends ? ” replied Willford, appealing to 
the crowd. 

“ Aye, aye, ’tis true ! She floated, Master 
Hugh,” said the man who had been ad- 
dressed as Symes, with a grave shake of 
his bald head. 

“ And so wouldst . thou have done, if 
thou hadst worn her coats. Why, gossip,” 
expostulated Master Hugh, “ what means 
all this ? A reasonable man like thee talking 
thus! Floated, quotha! Didst thou not 
mark that her coats, tied at the knee, were 
full of air, and bulged out like a piper’s 
wind-bag? Floated! I’ faith, it would 
have been more like witchcraft if she had 
sunk ! ” 

“ There be other proofs,” cried Willford, 
eagerly. “ Will ye that I put her to the 
other proofs? ” This to the crowd. 

“ Aye, aye ! ” they shouted, with a rush 
and a roar, which was too much for 
“ Hafid’s ” equanimity. He gave a swirl 
to the right, and then to the left, describ- 
ing a semi-circle, of w'hicli his master w r as 
the centre; and having gotten his hoofs 
well charged with gravel and small stones, 
let fly. 

The horse that was burned at Lisbon for 
witchcraft could not have done his master’s 
work more scientifically; but “Hafid” is 
not bewitched — only high-spirited. He 
does not like to have strange people fussing 
round within reach of his heels; and after 
his first volley, they do not do so. They 
retire out of range, and mutter — 

“ Let her be put to other proof.” 

“ Thou wast about to strike thy bodkin 
into her flesh?” said Master Hugh, ad- 
dressing the witch-finder. 


6 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“Into Satan’s mark,” he cried; “Sa- 
tan’s own mark, my friends! I appeal to 
thee, whom she has bewitched. Who is 
this man, that he should withstand me, 
when I have the warrant of his worship 
the reeve ? ” 

“ Were he fifty times the reeve he could 
not warrant the torture of the humblest of 
his majesty’s lieges,” said Hugh Desmond, 
lifting his hat. “ Who is this stranger? ” 

“ ’Tis no stranger; ’tis Master Willford* 
the witch - finder,” replied Symes, in a 
solemn whisper. “ Pry’the, Master Hugh, 
withstand him not. ’Tis true as he says. 
He hath the reeve’s license. Be silent, 
lest it be taken ill of tliee. The woman is 
surely a witch.” 

“ If she be, let her suffer; but not with- 
out proof,” replied the rider aloud. “ Ha! 
thy famous bodkin ! If thou dost thrust 
it into this mark, Master Willford— if that 
be thy name — and she be verily a witch, 
what will befall?” 

“ She will call on the name of her master 
who made it,” said Willford. 

“ Is there aught strange in thy bodkin? 
Any charm ? May one see it ? ” asked 
Master Hugh. 

“ Charm ! Thanks be to God, there is 
none. The Truth — the sound Truth , my 
friends, is the only charm I know. Take 
the bodkin in thy hand, and strike thy- 
self.” 

Master Hugh received the instrument — 
a large and sharp gold pin — and knelt 
down close to the assumed witch; but 
instead of thrusting it into her shoulder, 
he pretended to slip, and sent it up to the 
head in the leg of the witch-finder, who 
incontinently shrieked out— 

“ The Devil! ” 

“ Why, look you, now,” said his tor- 
mentor, “ how deceitful are these so-called 
proofs ! Did we not know Master Will- 
ford for an honest man, he would stand 
confessed a wizard! You heard what he 
cried ? ” 

“ ’Twas not struck into a devil’s mark,” 
growied the witch-finder, rubbing his 
bleeding calf. 

“ A fico for your devil’s marks ! ’Tis but 
a mole. Thou hast one on thy cheek, 
sweetheart,” Hugh added, turning to a 


pretty woman who stood near. “ I would 
fain be the prince of Darkness for awiiile 
if I might kiss so fair a piece of flesh.” 

At this sally the crowd laughed — a good 
sign, for when a crowd laughs it is no 
longer dangerous. 

Master Hugh knew well how to take 
advantage of the turn of the tide. He 
treated the witch-finder and his expostu- 
lations with ridicule. He rated the men, 
and laughed at the women ; and in a few 
minutes, the latter, who had been most 
violent against the witch, vied with each 
other in restoring the poor wretch to con- 
sciousness. 

“ ’Tis true,” they said to each other. 

“ Master Hugh is right. There was air in 
her coats. ’Twas but natural that she 
should float. Poor old dame! Who is 
she? Does any one know her?” 

No one knew her. She had only lately 
come to live in the town with her son, 
who was an armorer. It was rather a 
good thing for Master Willford that, wise 
under defeat, he had beaten a retreat be- 
fore this young giant came upon the scene, 
with his ten-pound hammer in his hand. 

Besides being a most inoffensive person, 
old Martha Denys, the reputed witch, was 
a devout Roman Catholic. This did not 
change the views of Master Willford, who 
was of the Reformed faith ; but the old re- 
ligion was strong just then in Manchester, 
and many came forward to vouch for the 
piety of the accused now that she was 
safe ; so Willford thought it best to retire 
from the prosecution as gracefully as he 
could — but he did so with a vow of ven- 
geance against the man who had so mis- 
used his bodkin. 

Hugh Desmond was not so far in ad- 
vance of his age as to deny the power of 
witches. What wrote Mr. Justice Black- 
stone, whose “ Commentaries ” are still a 
legal text-book. “ To deny,” he says, “ the 
possibility, nay, actual existence of witch- 
craft and sorcery, is at once flatly to con- 
tradict the revealed word of God in various 
passages, both of the Old and New Testa- 
ment; and the thing itself is a truth to 
which every nation in the world has in its 
turn borne testimony, either by examples 
seemingly well-attested, or by prohibitory 


A FAMILY TREE. 


7 


laws, which at least suppose the possibility 
of a commerce with evil spirits.” 

Lord North’s letter, already quoted from 
concludes — 

“ Sir, I find the country so fully posses- 
sed against them ’’(the three old women 
left for execution as witches) “ that, al- 
though some of the virtuosi may think 
these” (the confessions) “the effect of 
confederacy, melancholy, or delusion, and 
that young folks are altogether as quick- 
sighted as those who are old and infirm, 
yet we cannot reprieve them without ap- 
pearing to deny the very being of witches, 
which, as it is contrary to law, so I think 
it would be ill for bis majesty’s service, for 
it may give the faction occasion to set 
afoot the old trade of witch-finding, that 
cost many innocent persons their lives, 
which the justice will prevent.” 

Hugh Desmond was not wiser in his 
generation than were North and Black- 
stone in theirs. Moreover, in his time, the 
trade of witch-finding w r as in full swing. 
He had an idea that the rains could have 
caused the flood, and the flood the fever; 
without the aid of witchcraft in this par- 
ticular case. But that was no reason why 
witches should not have been, and be 
thereafter, the sole cause of disaster in 
others. 

He admitted that malign influences 
might be invoked, but objected to throwing 
old women into the river, and pricking 
them with bodkins as a means of discover- 
ing by whom such spells were exercised. 
He interposed between Master Willford 
and his victim out of pure humanity and 
love of justice, and was very glad to find 
afterwards that old Martha was the mother 
of the young smith whom he had just 
taken into his service. But there were 
those who shook their heads when this 
fact was brought out. 

In his youth Hugh Desmond had been 
what we call “ wild.” He rah away to 
sea, fought the Turks for the Venetian 
Republic, and did some buccaneering on 
the Spanish main afterwards on his own 
account. His hot blood calmed a little, 
he returned to Europe, wandered about in 
strange countries, and picked up strange 
knowledge and occupations, which caused 


some scandal to the good folks of Man- 
chester, when at last he came back to take 
his father’s place amongst them. 

He was a fourth son when he ran away, 
and was not much missed; but one by 
one his brothers died, and the old man 
was left with no kihdred hand to close his 
eyes, or heir to inherit his well-won wealth. 
Master Hugh had not been heard of for 
twenty years, and yet he turned up at the 
funeral of his last surviving brother, and 
showed no surprise when told that the 
others were dead. How was that? 

As long as his father lived — it was only 
for a year— the worst that could be Said of 
Hugh was that, nothing would induce him 
to become a merchant, that he was restless 
and at times morose, that he swore Spanish 
and Italian oaths, and rode off alone and 
stayed away for weeks together on no ap- 
parent errand. Still he was not unpopu- 
lar. He excelled in feats of strength, had 
a free, rollicking way with women, and a 
rough-and-ready manner of doing justice 
and seeing justice done to the poor, which 
gained him many friends— and some ene- 
mies. 

How came it that a man who had 
passed more than half his life abroad 
should know so much about the rights of 
Englishmen, that he could beard the reeve 
himself? This was another mystery. 

Within a month of the death of the old 
merchant, his father, he opened a huge 
coffer, which had been forwarded after 
him from Italy, took out many strange, 
and, to his wondering domestics, un- 
righteous implements, and set up a forge 
in an old building once used as a brew- 
house, where he began to spend his days 
and nights, forging iron beams, and cranks 
and springs, and poring over great moth- 
eaten books. A man of his wealth, who 
might be reeve, as his father had been, 
turning blacksmith! The gossips could 
not understand it, and laid it down at first 
to the pernicious effects of going abroad. 
The time came when they took a graver 
view. This was why master Symes was 
anxious to prevent him from helping the 
reputed witch. 

He was now about thirty years of age, 
strong, but well-formed, with clear grey 


8 


A FAMILY TREE. 


eyes, and a touch of sadness in them. | 
Short chestnut hair curled naturally round 
a broad and massive forehead, and a well- 
trimmed beard of the same rich hue hid 
the lower portion of his face. 

He was a handsome man, this Hugh 
Desmond, and you cofild not be half an 
hour in his company without discovering 
that he was one with whom it would be 
dangerous to trifle. Many knew him as 
kind and generous. Women and children 
took to him at once. They saw nothing 
stern in his eye. With the men he was 
not so popular, as a rule. Truth to tell, 
he carried too many guns (intellectually) 
for the majority of his acquaintances. 
They were rather afraid of him, though 
amongst themselves they ridiculed his 
various accomplishments, as jealous people 
will do. 

There was nothing unholy in his cranks 
and bars, or in the big black books he 
studied. He had simply become bitten 
whilst in Florence with that art which 
was to mechanics, what astrology was to 
astronomy, and alchemy to chemistry. 
He was bent upon discovering perpetual 
motion, and pursued his experiments in 
the manner and with the ceremonies 
which the enthusiasts or charlatans, under 
whom he had studied, exacted. 

According to the science of those days, 
a wheel for the machine which was to 
move of itself, and never cease moving^ 
was not only to be made of a certain size 
and weight, but to be commenced at given 
combinations of heavenly bodies, and 
many ingredients utterly unknown to 
Messrs. Whitworth, or Penn, had to be 
mixed with the metal. 

In the intervals of his great work, 
Master Hugh employed himself upon a 
much more profitabte labor. One of his 
masters— a pupil of the great Cellini — had 
given him three keys made by the very 
hands of that famous man, and each haft 
was a work of art worthy of its designer. 
The first was in the shape of an anchor, 
entwined with sea-weed; the second, of a 
cross, entwined with ivy; the third, of a 
heart, entwined with forget - me - nots. 
Hope, Faith, and Charity. The first 
was iron, the second silver, the third gold. 


To what caskets they belonged, or if indeed 
they had belonged to any, was not known. 
Hugh Desmond determined to make one 
for them. 

A strong hand, a correct eye, and a vivid 
imagination untramelled by rule, produced 
what was at least a curiosity — in parts 
really beautiful, as a whole quaint and 
weird. A sort of Mooresque palace, or 
temple, upon which a crowd of angels, 
demons, sprites, dwarfs, and creatures half 
human, half animal, swarmed as bees 
upon a hive — peering in and out of the 
windows, climbing over the roof, attack- 
ing and defending the doors. There was 
nothing in common between the casket 
and its keys, except that its outside wa9 
made of the same metals — iron, silver, and 
gold. 

Certain inquisitive neighbors, excited by 
the rumors that were current, took heart 
of grace (and a ladder) and watched 
Master Hugh at his work through a win- 
dow of the old brewhouse. They saw the 
great machine growing, day by day, more 
horribly incomprehensible. They saw it 
move, and heard it groan. They beheld 
lumps of clay and metal gradually taking 
unholy forms, and you may be sure that 
such scandals lost nothing in the telling. 
One veracious reporter had seen the 
Prince of Darkness himself blowing the 
forge bellows. 

When it became known that the worker 
had taken the son of the reputed witch 
into his service to. assist him in his mys- 
terious labors, and that the reputed witch 
herself was living in his house, there was 
great excitement in the good city. It was 
not reported that the reputed witch passed 
hours on her knees praying that her bene- 
factor might be delivered from evil — that 
she went regularly to church and confes- 
sion, and was religious to fanaticism. It 
was not considered that Desmond had be- 
friended others besides old Dame Denys, 
simply because they were friendless or 
oppressed. Against either — standing alone 
— there was only a vague suspicion; but 
although zero, multiplied by zero, gives no 
value in arithmetic; nothing, multiplied 
by nothing— according to Scandal’s rule- 
very often makes something ; and so it 


A FAMILY TREE. 


9 


was when Hugh Desmond’s unproved 
sorcery, and Martha Denys’ unproved 
witchcraft, were put together. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE EFFECT OF HOLY WATER. 

Martha Denys did more than pray 
for the soul of her defender. She deter- 
mined to save him in spite ofhimself. He 
was such a good man, such a kind master, 
that it was impossible he could be willingly 
going to destruction. The arch deceiver 
had him in his toils, and mayhap would 
soon have his assistant — her son — also. 
True it was that the young smith’s work 
was not of an occult nature. He forged, 
and hammered, and cast metals, as an 
honest man might do; and laughed at the 
fears and prayers of his pious parent. 
But he did not sit up at night over those 
gruesome books, or know for what awful 
use the instruments he made were intend- 
ed. Ho, Hugh Desmond was to have his 
eyes opened, and the fiend exorcised by a 
sprinkling of the old brewhouse with holy 
water. 

Remember this was in the “ good old 
times.” In holy water Martha Denys put 
her trust. Had not the saints of old fought 
and beaten the — the goat with it, over and 
over again? Had not even sinners used 
it to its discomfiture? She took a flacon 
to her priest, and, for a consideration, ob- 
tained a quart of liquid of more than 
common holiness — of XXX strength 
against the powers of darkness — and 
brought it reverently to her room in 
Master Hugh’s house. But how was she 
to administer the sacred disinfectant? 
That was the question ! For her life she 
dared not enter that infernal laboratory. 
She had looked in once and was terrified. 
The sight that met her view was evil 
enough, disguised as it was by infernal 
artifices. tWhat would it not be when 
that weird machine and those fearsome 
instruments resumed their right forms as 
demons from the nethermost pit under 
the influence of her holy water? What 
was she to do? Take her son into the 
plot? He would only laugh at it. Find 


some other instrument? Easily said, but 
where? — she a stranger and mistrusted! 
At last she found an accessory in the per- 
son of a naughty little boy. 

The naughty little boy, who goes where 
he is not wanted, spies into what is not 
intended for him to see, and does general- 
ly what he is forbid (as they say in Amer- 
ica) out of sheer “ cussed ness,” is not pe- 
culiar to any country or any age. I dare 
say there were naughty little boys in Hin- 
eveh, who played tip-cat .in the streets, and 
made personal remarks upon the subjects 
of Sardanapalus, pretty much as they vex 
the lieges of Queen Victoria with such 
pastimes and observations in this year of 
grace. 

There were certainly naughty little street 
boys in Manchester when James the First 
was king, and in one of these Dame Mar- 
tha put her trust. Too young to under- 
stand what was whispered of Master Hugh 
Desmond’s work, he was all agog to see 
what was in the old brewhouse, and so 
steal a march upon his companions. He 
was to mount on a ladder to a window 
from which a good sight could be had, and 
the only service exacted as the price of 
this treat, was just to scatter some water 
out of a bottle as far and as widely as he 
could. This was fair in itself. Haughty 
little boys like throwing water — at a safe 
distance — over people. 

Dame Martha did not tell him it was 
holy water, and I’m afraid it would not 
have much mattered if she had. IJp he 
went like a lamplighter, and was some- 
what disappointed, when he reached his 
coign of vantage, to find that there was no 
one to sprinkle; but when he saw that 
grim machine moving by itself, his heart 
(or one of his legs) failed him. He slipped, 
and down fell the flacon, still corked, 
plump into a crucible of molten metal, 
which Master Hugh, by some forgetful- 
ness, had left uncovered w ? hen he w T ent 
out. It was well for him that he had gone 
out. An awful explosion followed. The 
crucible was blown to atoms, and its fiery 
contents scattered far and wide. 

Dame Martha fell on her knees, and in- 
voked the entire calendar of saints. All 
the neighbors rushed out to see what had 


to 


A FAMILY TREE. 


happened, and when the cause was elicited 
from the trembling author of the blow-up, 
there were found those who had seen the 
father of mischief himself in propria per - 
sona — hoofs, horns, tail and all ! flying out 
amidst the smoke. All this was duly re- 
ported to Master Willford. 

“ Ho, ho,” he mused ; “ if Martha De- 
nys be not a witch, her master is a wizard. 
Peradventure they were in league togeth- 
er, and the one grew jealous of the other’s 
power. The devil can quote Scripture for 
his purpose — why may not a witch use 
holy water for her’s? ” 

Manchester was but a small town then, 
and the news soon spread. It took this 
form. A holy priest, scandalised by what 
he had heard of Master Hugh’s proceed- 
ings, went in full canonicals, and preceded 
by the holy cross, to the old brewliouse. 
and found the doors locked. At a touch 
of the sacred emblem they flew open, and 
discovered the tenant working at his forge, 
and Satan blowing the bellows! At the 
sight of the priest, the evil one made a 
dash to escape, but was met with a douche 
of holy water, upon which he seized his 
disciple, rent the building in twain, and 
carried him away, shrieking, to the nether 
regions ! 

The sight of Master Hugh walking 
about in the flesh somewhat invalidated 
this narrative in some of its details; but 
the undoubted tact that Satan had been 
seen flying away remained. Now it was 
easy to take a defenceless woman to the 
river and try her for a witch ; but to deal 
with a man of Desmond’s wealth, and a 
justice of the peace to boot, was a ticklish 
business. So good Master Willford told 
his informant to wait and watch. 

That night there were two more explo- 
sions, on a smaller scale, caused deliber- 
ately. Master Hugh mended his broken 
furnace, set a crucible in the blast, and 
when the metal it contained was liquid, 
suspended over it, by means of a string 
and pulley, a bottle of water which had 
not been blessed. Then, having retired to 
a safe distance, he let go the line. Down 
fell the bottle, and blow-up number two 
followed as a matter of course. 

Then he gent for several of his late 


father’s friends, to explain the phenome- 
non of the morning* but only one, Master 
Symes, accepted the invitation. 

“ Well, old Symes is a staid and respect- 
ed citizen,” thought Desmond ; “ his word 
will be taken, and these ridiculous rumors 
silenced.” 

So, in the presence of that worthy, of 
the young smith, and of his mother — who 
with the greatest difficulty was persuaded 
to come as far as the door, w r here she stood 
repeating paters and ares as fast as her 
tongue could move, and clasping the largest 
crucifix she could find — the supposed wiz- 
ard prepared for explosion number three, 
which went off to his entire satisfaction. 

“ Strange 1” he mused, as he sat alone 
afterwards. “ Passing strange ! Fire and 
water, both servants of man, each the 
enemy of the other! Can it be that out 
of their strife for mastery may come that 
force I seek?— that power which man is 
destined to subdue to his will?” 

Daybreak found him pursuing the train 
of thought thus opened; and then he 
mounted his horse, and rode away on one 
of his mysterious journeys, still thinking, 
planning, wondering, groping blindly on 
the verge of the great discovery which had 
yet to be made. 

Southward he rode, through a country 
where now the streams run like ink ; where 
earth, and air, and sky are soaked in black- 
ness, and no green thingcan thrive; where 
at night you can no more count the fur- 
naces that blaze than you can count the 
stars when under the southern cross. He 
rode over the breezy heath where only the 
call of the partridge or the cry of the bit- 
tern was heard; through shady lanes of 
the young May blossom ; and in the waters 
that he forded, white lilies flowered, and 
trout, scared by the plash of his horse’s 
hoofs, darted like silver arrows from the 
shallows. 

All night he rode, and there were no 
lights to guide him but those iij the clear 
heaven. In the early morning, he drew 
rein in front of a grange, such as we may 
find even now in the midlands — a long, 
low building, half wood, half stone, whose 
massive oaken beams and rafters w r ould 
suffice, split up, to build a modern terrace. 


A FAMILY TREE. 


11 


Thatched was the roof, and the windows 
unglazed (only grand houses had glazed 
windows in those days), all but one, and in 
that four globes of glass served for what 
we should call “panes.” This mode of 
letting in light and keeping out the weath- 
er was common enough in Italy at the 
time; but the few travelers who passed 
wondered at it, as, indeed, they did at 
much about those who adopted it. 

Hugh Desmond rode up to the porch, 
and “Carissima” rose to his lips, as he 
dismounted. He had not time to say the 
word — he was locked in a woman’s arms. 

“ Ah, Hugo, mio! I knew it was you! 
I felt you w T ere coming. I have watched 
for you all night. The saints be praised, 
you are come at last! ” she murmured, in 
a slight foreign accent, with her arms about 
his neck and her soft young cheek nestling 
on his shoulder. “ You are come,” she re- 
peated, over and over again, as though in 
those three words were the greatest hap- 
piness that heaven could grant her. 

“ And the little ones? ” he asked, raising 
her face to kiss it again. 

“Well — both well. You shall go to 
them directly, only let me hold you thus a 
little longer, to be sure — quite sure.” 

And she tightened the fold of her lov- 
ing arms, and bent upon him the gaze of 
lustrous, dreamy, dark blue eyes, swim- 
ming in soft delight. 

“ You have me now, sure enough! ” he 
laughed. 

“For a long time? Say for a long 
time.” 

She held him off a little as she spoke, 
and a tinge of sadness or anxiety darkened 
her face. 

“ For longer than before, sweetheart.” 

“ Is that an English word — sweetheart? ” 
she asked, again nestling on his bosom. 

“ A good English word. Why not?” 

“ It sounds not so; it is so gentle.” 

*‘ You love not our tongue? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! for it is yours ; but it is rough 
— all but that word. Call me ‘ sweetheart’ 
again ? ” 

“ Sweetheart — wife ! That to my ears 
has the better sound. It holds all the oth- 
er, and more,” said Desmond. 

“ More — for everyone ? ” she asked. 


“ For me.” 

“It likes me not as well,” she said, shak- 
ing her head. “Let me be * sweetheart 9 
always.” 

He kissed her again, and they passed in. 

Why did he hide that fair woman who 
loved him so in the lonely Grange? Why 
visit her so seldom that she had to strain 
him so closely to her heart to be sure that 
his coming was not a dream? Why did 
he not take her to his home, and call her 
before all the world by that name — wife — 
he held so dear? Was he ashamed of her 
for her birth ? She was of a noble— an all 
but princely race; Othello-like, he had 
won he*r — soldier of fortune, Buccaneer as 
he was — and like the Moor, had married 
for beauty and a tender heart. That was 
the head and front of his offending. A 
dire, unpardonable offence in the Italy of 
that time. 

There was no regularly organized soci- 
ety — as some have pretended — in existence 
to watch over the daughters of great 
houses and save them from Desdemona’s 
fate, or dissolve unequal alliances with 
three inches of steel. But there was what 
came to much the same thing — an under- 
standing between fathers and brothers 
that a plebeian who ventured to mix his 
blood with theirs should not be permitted 
to live. It was a point of honor that he 
should be made away with. Popes, kings, 
and cardinals, might take the flowers of 
their flock as mistresses, and the family 
was flattered rather than otherwise by 
such favors, and not too proud to profit 
by such shame;* but an unennobled lover 
pronounced his own death sentence when 
he swore before God to love and cherish 
one of these as his wife. Go where he 
would, they found him sooner or later. 
Do what he might, they struck him down 
— not sword in hand like men, but with 
the poniard of the hired bravo, or the 
drugs of the secret poisoner. No lapse of 
time condoned the crime, no distance 
placed between him and its scene protect- 
ed the criminal. Vengeance was some- 
times slow, but always sure, inexorable as 
the grave. A Scottish gentleman, who 
stole a daughter of the visconti, was assas- 


12 


A FAMILY TREE. 


sinated fifteen years afterwards. Nor was 
the death of the principal offender the end 
of such vendettas. Sometimes the wife, 
and even the children were sacrificed. 

Again I say these were your “ good old 
times!” Hugh Desmond had secretly 
wooed and won a lady in whose veins ran 
such noble blood, and he learned too late 
what his love had brought upon her. 

One thing was in his favor. He was 
not known in Mantua. He had arrived 
in that city but a day when the soft blue 
eyes took him captive, and the week was 
not over before he had his bride safe on 
the sea. Love burns up quickly in Italy, 
and the whilom Buccaneer was a lusty 
wooer. 

No one knew with whom the Indy 
Maria had eloped save her old nurse, who 
was the contriver and partner of her flight. 
It was from this worthy that Master Hugh 
learned his danger, and it was on her ad- 
vice that he hid his darling in that lonely 
Grange, where their faithful attendant 
died soon after the birth of his first child. 

He could be identified only through his 
wife, and his plan was to keep her in 
secret till she had mastered the English 
language, and lost, as far as possible, all 
traces of her foreign birth. To take her 
to hi£ home, and present her to his father 
and his friends, would have been to pro- 
voke all manner of questioning and specu- 
lation. Besides, in those “good old times” 
folks looked askance at foreigners, particu- 
larly on foreign women. 

Old John Desmond often perplexed his 
son by urging him to marry, and let him 
(the father) hold a grandchild on his knee 
before he died. Many and many a time 
did Master Hugh think of the bright-eyed 
boy in his Staffordshire Grange, and long 
to cheer the old man’s heart with a sight 
of his sunny face; but he dared not. 

His fears were not for himself. He and 
death had met so often, that steel and 
shot had no terrors for him. He was also 
somewhat of a fatalist, and believed in 
astrology, as was proper at the time. His 
horoscope had been cast, and a long life 
predicted for him. 

Maria never knew the reason why she 
was to forget the soft language of her 


girlhood, and not to teach it to her 
children. It was her husband’s will — that 
was enough for her. Her life in the 
lonely Grange w r as wofully dull after gay 
Mantua, but it was the home her husband 
had provided, and that was enough for 
her. The only thing against which her^ 
gentle heart rebelled, was his long absen- 
ces, and even these became more bearable 
as the children grew up, and could talk 
with her of him. 

So six years passed, and the plan worked 
well. 

“ Tell me now, sweetheart,” said Hugh, 
when he had kissed the little ones (a boy 
and a girl) and appeased their clamorous 
delight; “tell me what has passed since 
last I saw thee.” 

“ Oh, nothing — nothing of import.” 

“ Tell me all, and leave me. to judge if it 
be of import or no.” 

“Well, the great beech tree was blown 
down by a storm. The Holy Virgin be 
praised ! it fell at night, else had our little 
ones been hurt, for oft they play beneath 
its shade.” 

“ They would not have been out in the 
storm, thou fond one; but on with thy 
tale.” 

“ There is nothing — stay! Oh, the pea- 
cock is dead.” 

“ Peace to his ashes,” said Desmond. 

“ And I have sixteen little chickens.” 

“A notable housewife, truly ! But tell 
me what has passed outside the house. 
Hast thou been abroad? Hast thou seen 
any ? ” 

“ Didst thou not say that I was not to 
go abroad?” she asked, as an answer to 
his first question. “ I have seen none — 
except ” 

“ Well ? ” 

“A poor wandering beggar, dear; so 
faint and lame! A stranger, too; I could 
but take pity on him.” 

“ A stranger ! Do you mean a foreigner ?” 

“ He was of Italy — a countryman, Hugo. 
Why do you start and look so pale ? Surely 
it were inhuman to let any poor soul pass 
in such a plight — but a countryman ! I 
gave him food and wine, and he went his 
way blessing me.” 

“ You spoke Italian with him? ” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


u A word or two — only a word or two — 
which flew out unconsidered when he ad- 
dressed me in my native tongue. Then I 
remembered your wish. Ah, Hugo ! ’twas 
but a few words, and only to a poor beg- 
gar.” 

“ Describe to me this beggar.” 

“ He was fainting with hunger, and his 
feet ” 

“ Tell me of his face, his form.” 

“ Tall and dark, and thin-visaged.” 

“ With a scar on his right cheek? ” 

“ In sooth he had ! Have you seen him ? 
Did he speak of me?” she asked, with in- 
terest. 

“ I have seen him,” Hugh replied, 
moodily. 

“ And you are angry,” she said, in a 
reproachful tone; “angry with poor 
Sweetheart because, when one of her own 
people cried to her for charity in the name 
of God, she for a moment forgot your de- 
sires, and spoke three little word^ of her 
own dear tongue ! ” 

“Not angry,” he answered; “only fear- 
some of a danger you wot not of. In all I 
do, I but seek thy safety, thy happiness,” 
he continued, drawing her head upon his 
shoulder, and caressing her soft cheek. 
“Only fearsome, wife mine, not angry.” 

“ Then call me sweetheart! ” 

“ Sweetheart! ” 


CHAPTER III. 

THE SEARCH-WARRANT. 

In Master Willford’s lodgings, near 
Deansgate, sat the witcli-finder, in earnest 
conversation with a foreigner— a Spaniard 
— whose acquaintance he had lately made, 
and who might have passed as a master 
mariner. And, indeed, it was in that 
capacity that he w r as known to Willford ; 
but a careful observer might have re- 
marked that seafarers did not usually wear 
such fine linen, or have such delicate, soft 
hands. 

They spoke in English, which the mari- 
ner, who was addressed as Vincenti Porras, 
spoke pretty fluently, and their talk was 
of the events which were exciting the 
good town — the awful events which had 


13 

passed in the workshop of Hugh Desmond, 
and his sudden disappearance. 

“ I knew not,” said Porras, “ that such 
lore was practised in your country. We 
deem the English — pardon me— as too 
dull and fond of trade to meddle with the 
occult sciences.” 

“Alas! my friend,” replied Willford, 
“the devil works alike with all nations; 
but thou art partly in the right. Such 
dealings as this man hath with the powers 
of darkness are not common (thanks be 
to the Lord !) amongst us. He learned 
them in foreign parts.” 

“Ha! He has been abroad! Where ?’’ 

“ I cannot tell thee with exactitude. He 
hath sojourned in the Americas, and on 
the Spanish main; he hath been in the 
East among the Moslems, who are skilled, 
I hear, in unholy knowledge. For twenty 
years he has been a wanderer on the face 
of the earth, and lastly he came from 
Italy.” 

“ How know you that. Master Willford ? ” 

“Because a huge coffer, full (as it now 
appears) of unholy utensils and wicked 
books, was thence despatched after him.” 

“ From what port? ” 

“ From Venice.” 

“Art sure?” 

“ The merchant who received it for him 
from the ship is here now. He will tell 
thee it is so.” 

“Nay, I doubt thee not, Master Willford 
— thou who art so exact! I warrant me 
there is little in this man’s history that 
thy skill will not unravel.” 

“ ’Tis my duty, good senor; ’tis the duty 
of every God-fearing man to denounce 
such as he; and this stiff-necked genera- 
tion will not harken unto me if I give not 
proofs.” 

“ Has -lie a wife? ” asked Porras, after a 
pause. 

“ Nay, nay ; wizards marry not, or are 
given in marriage,” said the witch-finder, 
with a grave shake of his head. 

“Pardon me if again I say — art sure?” 

“He has a light way with women who 
favor him, but he seeks neither wife nor 
paramour. They never do.” 

“ Knowest thou whither he has gone? ” 

“Not as yet. I shall know. I have 


14 


A FAMILY TREE. 


those upon his tracks whom he will hardly 
baffle.” 

“ Mayhap he will return when he deems 
this storm has somewhat blown over.” 

“ It will not blow over.” 

“It should not, Master Willford.” 

“ It shall not.” 

“ Has it not seemed to thee,” said the 
mariner, drawing his chair closer, and 
leaning over the table, “ that now he is 
away would be a good time for making 
perquisition in his house? ” 

“ I have thought of that,” Willford re- 
plied ; “but the justices will not grant a 
warrant. He is one of themselves, and 
for very shame they will not do right.” 

“But, Master Willford, there be other 
folk living in that house. There is the 
woman who was tried as a witch.” 

“The people deem her innocent; they 
lay all the blame upon her master now,” 
said Willford, with a gleam of triumph in 
his eye. 

“ If the law deny them justice, the peo- 
ple should take it for themselves,” said the 
Spaniard. 

“ This is England, senor; the law is re- 
spected.” 

“ Even when corrupt? ” 

“ Aye, even when corrupt in one limb ; 
the body of it is pure.” 

“ Listen, my friend. For a great good, 
one may do a little evil.” 

“ The doctrine of the Society of Jesus! 
— a detestable, damnable heresy!” cried 
Willford. 

“ Patience, patience! The evil whereof 
I speak is not one which affects the soul. 
’Tis naught but what, at its worst, would 
be a slight, momentary injustice to one — 
easily repaired — which would do a great 
justice to all.” 

“ Speak what is in thy mind.” 

“ What if this woman’s son were ac- 
cused of a theft? He is but a smith. He 
has no friends in power. A warrant might 
be got to search Ms lodgings, and the 
search be easily followed to where he 
works. Give him a rose-noble and declare 
that he has been wrongfully accused, and 
what harm comes to him? But in the 
while this Hugh Desmond’s books and pa- 
pers may pass into your hands ; and who 


knows what else to criminate him might 
be found? Think it over, Master Will- 
ford, think it over. The law, or those 
who administer it, stands between thee 
and justice— between thee and thy Chris- 
tian duty , my friend. Did not Joseph ac- 
cuse his best-loved brother of theft, the 
better to work out God’s will?” 

“It were difficult,” murmured Willford, 
“ and if it should fail ” 

“ Leave it to me, and it will not fail,” 
said the other, quickly. 

“ Thou takest a strange interest in the 
matter, senor.” 

“I take a deep interest in thee, Martin 
Willford. Thou art a good man, and it 
ricks me to see thee baffled in thy good 
work.” 

It is unnecessary to record what more 
passed between these worthies. That 
night there was an outcry in an ale-house 
much frequented by smiths; a tall, gaunt 
man, with a scar on his face— a foreigner 
— had been robbed. He had got very 
drunk on the unaccustomed liquor. A 
young smith had made great fun with 
him: rolled him on the floor, blackened 
his face, and performed upon him other 
horse play ; but when he came to his senses 
in the morning, his purse was gone, and 
he loudly accused that young smith of 
having stolen it. The foreigner’s master 
(also a foreigner) took the case up warm- 
ly. His servant was an honest man, though 
he did take too much ale; he was incapa- 
ble of making a false accusation. As the 
young smith had left the drinking shop 
before the man recovered, he had an op- 
portunity of hiding that purse. Let it be 
searched for. Nay, the smith’s own char- 
acter demanded such an inquest, for if the 
purse were not found he would be cleared. 
So the justices granted their search-war- 
rant, little thinking to what extended use 
it would be put. 

The constable to whom this warrant 
was entrusted for execution was an official 
of the Dogberry type— a big, fat man, 
with a high opinion of his own importance 
and power, and a grudge against Master 
Hugh, who had snubbed him from the 
bench more than once for the manner in 
which that power had been exercised. He 


A FAMILY TREE. 


15 


did not love Master Hugh, and readily fell 
in with the views of Senor Porras as to 
how the search-warrant should be used. 
He thought that Senor Porras (though a 
foreigner) was a very superior man, and 
the Senor declared loudly that he would 
to Heaven they had in his country such 
zealous and intelligent officers as the con- 
stable. 

“ There is small need,” said the wily 
one, “ to point out to one of thy experi- 
ence that if this young man be a thief he 
will not hide his spoil in his own chamber. 
No, no: the more so, when there is that 
laboratory of his master which none may 
enter for (as he may think) a safe place 
of deposit. It is there , as you so justly 
said just now, that our search should be 
made, Master Constable.” 

Master Constable had not said one word 
about searching the laboratory, but he 
pursed up his lips and nodded his head 
with Burleighian wisdom all the same. 

The chamber of the accused Gregory 
Denys was searched as a matter of form, 
as also was that of his mother, and noth- 
ing was found. The searchers then pro- 
ceeded to the old brew-house, accompanied 
by the young smith — as usual, hammer in 
hand. He had treated the accusation as an 
honest man should, with a mixture of in- 
dignation and ridicule. They might turn 
his quarters topsy-turvy, if they pleased, 
all the better for him, but when they be- 
gan to meddle with his master’s belong- 
ings, he growled and followed them here 
and there like a faithful watch-dog, grip- 
ping his hammer now and again, pretty 
much as his canine type might show his 
teeth. 

“ What is this?” said Senor Porras, halt- 
ing in front of the casket of the three keys, 
already described; “a strange piece of 
handicraft, truly.” 

“ But not for thee to tamper with,” said 
Gregory, bringing down his hammer with 
a thud on the block on which it stood. 
“ That is my master’s. He alone has the 
keys, and he left the town before you, ras- 
cal, accused me.” 

“ Well, well, let it rest, Master Consta- 
ble,” Porras replied. “ It is not in such 
things, as well thou knowest, that stolen 


goods are bestowed. Hast searched, as 
Master Constable bade thee, in the ashes 
of the forge and the lumber on yon 
shelves?” he continued, to the lesser 
powers of the law. 

Now Master Constable, though a big 
man, had a small supply of valor, and the 
weird contents of the laboratory, especial- 
ly the great machine, scared him not a 
little. He kept close to the Senor, and 
echoed his words in a feeble voice. “ Aye, 
search as I bade thee, my masters; search 
well as I bade thee, in the ashes and 
amongst the lumber,” he repeated. So 
they raked about the furnace, and turned 
out crucibles, and caused consternation to 
rats and mice and beetles, and raised a 
great dust, but found not what they 
sought. As they searched and no harm 
came, Master Constable took heart, and 
assisted them with an “ Ah, this is a likely 
spot,” or an “ It misgave me that we 
should not find it here,” according to cir- 
cumstances. 

They did not notice what Senor Porras 
was about the while; but he was busy — 
very busy. A cry of horror from the val- 
iant constable disturbed him. 

In a far corner, w r here alembics, retorts 
and other instruments of alchemy were 
stored, they had come upon a pile of 
bones! 

“The Lord preserve us! There has 
been murder done!” cried the constable. 
“ See, good Master Porras, these be dead 
men’s bones ! Oh ! alack, alack ! ” 

Porras took up one of the bones, and a 
smile glimmered for an instant on his 
gaunt visage as he examined it. He threw 
it down again, and drew the constable 
aside. 

“ Thou hast indeed made a fearful dis- 
covery,” said the former; “one that might 
well affright a man of lesser parts. But 
thou knowest thy duty ; thou knowest the 
law. Thou art here for one purpose ; stick 
to that, Master Constable, and meddle not 
with what might cause thee trouble. Lay 
it upon thy knaves that they say nothing 
touching those relics, and do thou keep thy 
own counsel till thou canst act safely, 
mark me — safely.” 

“ ’Tis just what I was about to say to 


16 


A FAMILY TREE 


thyself, good senor,” said the constable. 
“ Not a word, I pray thee, about the bones. 
Good Lord ! What a coil ! what a coil ! ” 

After this, the search w r ent on with re- 
laxed vigor. Master Constable was no 
longer the foremost, poking and prying 
here and there. His men were ready 
enough to tell each other to move this, or 
shake out that, but hung back from touch- 
ing anything themselves. None could 
tell what farther horror might be dis- 
eased, and all were relieved when Senor 
Porras, who had again been at work in 
his own way, came forward and said, 
“ Good Master Constable, if thou hast not 
found the purse in this space, be sure it is 
not here.” 

“I did so conclude a while ago,” said 
the constable, “ but for thy sake, to con- 
tent thee the more, I did continue. Art 
satisfied ? ” 

“ Aye, fully.” There was an evil gleam 
in his eyes as he spoke. 

“ Thou bearest,” said the constable to 
his men. “ He is fully satisfied. Thou 
wilt tell the justices, Senor Porras, that I 
have made full perquisation ; and that 
thou art satisfied.” 

“ Aye, that I will.” 

Then did the law’s executive impress 
upon his followers the necessity of keeping 
the discovery of those bones a dead secret, 
as they valued his favor. 

“ For,” said he, “ peradventure there 
may come somewhat out of this, and per- 
adventure there may not. If haply there 
hath been a crime committed, it is not 
like grave and valiant officers to talk of it 
like idle gossips; and if not, then mayhap 
thine ears may smart if thy tongue wags 
loosely.” 

As they left the house, they found a 
large crowd assembled in the street. The 
news that the premises of Hugh Desmond 
were being searched, had leaked out and 
spread. Long before the searchers ap- 
peared the result of their search was 
known. They had found the dead body 
of the wizard (for it was Satan himself 
who had appeared in his likeness the next 
day in the streets) on the roof where the 
evil one had dropped him. When they 
touched his magic books they had burst 


into flames in their hands, and so on. 
The real cause, or excuse for the search, 
was unknown, or forgotten, amidst these 
exciting reports. 

Foremost in the press stood the man 
who had lost his purse, and upon him 
Senor Porras turned in anger. 

“ Why, thou drunken loon ! ” he shouted, 
“thou hast wronged an innocent man! 
Stand back, good people, press not so 
upon us, I pray you. There is nothing to 
tell — nothing,” he said, as the crowd began 
to clamor for news. “ We have searched 
the chamber of this good smith, and found 
nothing that an honest man may not 
have. We have searched diligently the 
place where he works, and Master Con- 
stable here will tell you that we have not 
found anything that an hon — beshrewme! 
I am going too far. I was about to say as 
before — nothing that an honest man may 
not have, but that would not be truth. 
Let me say instead, nothing of his — of 
Gregory Denys’, mark you — that was not 
lawful. We did truly find — but that is 
naught at present. Oh, my masters, you 
are well served. Nothing escapes Master 
Constable. He is a man who knows his 
duty, and does it without regard of per- 
sons. But thou ” — turning again upon his 
retainer — “ thou soft - brained guzzler ! 
Thou hast brought thyself into a pretty 
coil. Accuse this honest smith of robbing 
thee! Does he look like a cut-purse? — 
thou fool! Robbed thee of thy money, 
and thou drunk! How knowest thee that 
thou hadst any money upon thee? Come, 
come! fair is fair. We have searched the 
lodgings of the accused; let us now see 
what may be found in the chamber of the 
accuser; and I tell thee plainly, Marco, be- 
fore these good men, that if thy purse — a 
plague on't!— be there, thou slialt forfeit 
it to the man thou hast wrongfully charged 
with its loss. Is that fair?” 

“ ’Tis just! — ’Tis right!— A worthy gen- 
tleman, and a well spoken!” broke from 
the crowd, and away they scampered to 
Dean’s Gate to see the fun, and they were 
rewarded. 

In less than ten minutes the crest-fallen 
Marco was shown his purse, taken from 
the pocket of one of his own doublets, 


A FAMILY TREE. 


17 


"which he had put off the very day he had 
taken too much of that strong ale! Senor 
Porras was furious. “ Thou’rt forsworn ! 
Thou art disgraced ! And thou hast dis- 
graced me — thy master. Wretch! On 
thy knees and crave this good man’s par- 
don. I prythee be not hard with him,” 
he said in an undertone to Gregory; “he 
is but a foolish lad, and honest in the 
main. ’Twas the liquor that betrayed 
him. Take his money— justly thine— as 
compensation, and pardon him. Thou 
wast innocent. Had I seen thy face before 
’this matter went so far, I would not have 
believed a word against thee — no one 
would.” 

But Gregory was made of too stern 
stuff for such soft-solder to penetrate. 

“ To the devil with thy purse and thee ! ” 
he growled, as he flung the one out of the 
window, and turned on his heel from the 
other. The purse fell upon the stones 
below and burst. The crowd scrambled 
for the scattered coins, and there was an 
end of events for that day, so far as this 
history is concerned. 

But not an end to talk over what had 
happened, of questions, and surmises, and 
scandal. What was it that Master Con- 
stable had found in the old brewhouse? 
Nothing unlawful belonging to Gregory 
Denys, for the senor (who had become 
very popular by grace of that scramble) 
had said so; but there was something un- 
lawful there. Some mystery. Was it 
true about the dead body and the blazing 
books? Nd one had denied it. 

Cross-examined by his wife — who was a 
lady of a curious mind, and not to be de- 
nied information — Master Constable con- 
fessed — under a solemn pledge of secrecy 
— about those bones. The awful secret 
burned in the breast of Mistress Constable 
as a half-crown burns in the pocket of a 
school-boy, and she yearned to spend it. 
What is the use of knowing more than 
your neighbors if you may not tell it? 
Under a pledge of solemn secrecy, she 
told her particular friend, who passed it 
on under similar conditions, until all 
Manchester was raving about the bones. 
They were bones of infants, which the 
wizard had boiled down to get their fat. 


They were the bones of old John Mait- 
land, who had disappeared! They were 
the wizard’s own bones! They were the 
bones of his father, w'hicli he had sacri- 
legiously rifled from the grave to aid in his 
unholy rites! Alas for popularity! All 
the good deeds that Hugh Desmond had 
done, all his kind words, all his gallant 
defending of the poor, were forgotten. To 
the winds went good Master Symes’ ex- 
planation of the holy water affair! He 
had been deceived. The old version was 
revived, and this followed so quickly by 
that gruesome discovery, suggesting worse 
than murders — damned Hugh Desmond. 
Living or dead he was a wizard. Dead he 
was to be held accursed — living he was to 
be cursed, and die. 

Master Willford had taken no part in 
the search, but its result — so far as it has 
been recorded here— was duly reported to 
him by Senor Porras. 

“ Let it w r ork. my friend,” said the latter, 
wflien he had told his tale. “ It will all 
come out— the more so I advised them to 
keep it secret.” 

That same night Senor Porras and his 
man Marco rode out of Manchester. Rode, 
when they cleared the town, not as master 
and man. They travelled as equals and 
companions side by side, and their talk 
w r as not in Spanish, but Italian. They 
rode on the very tracks which Hugh Des- 
mond had left on moor and fell, five days 
before — Marco leading, for he had been 
that w r ay already. 


CHAPTER IV. 

NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 

The noble house of Ribolini was not 
fortunate with its rising generation when 
the sixteenth century w r as in its first de- 
cade. The only daughter had died, in the 
prime of her youth and beauty, of a 
malady so sudden and virulent, that her 
friends were shocked by the appearance 
of her funeral cortege before they knew of 
her illness. 

She was lost almost on the eve of her mar- 
riage, and there were some who shook 


18 


A FAMILY TREE. 


their heads and said that perhaps she was 
happier as it was; for the union, arranged 
by her family, did not promise well for 
her. The bridegroom elect — a distant 
cousin— was old enough to be her father; 
a stern, cold man, with a face cut, as it 
seemed, out of grey stone, and a heart to 
match; but rich, and a near relative of 
the Gonzagas, who ruled Mantua in that 
day. But young ladies had to do what 
they were told in those good old times. 

The only son was what we should call 
“ fast.” I do not know what name they 
had then for young nobles who found 
their pleasures outside of the parental 
palace, and sowed wild oats in the St. 
John’s Woods (be sure there were such 
glades) of the Italian cities. He had a 
roving, wild, unsatisfactory disposition, 
this Cosmo de Ribolini, and, as a matter 
of course, was his mother’s darling. 

It had pleased him to spend much of 
his time away from paternal control in 
Venice, and formed ideas in that freer at- 
mosphere which were shocking to the 
head of his house. He had, moreover, 
evinced indifference about the traditions 
of his family, and could not be got to 
study the duties to be expected of him 
when he should become its chief. The 
fact was, that these traditions and duties 
had been sprung upon him at an age when 
he could not understand what was meant; 
and when his mind was matured suffi- 
ciently to comprehend them, it sickened 
against the so oft-repeated dose. 

His father had married late in life, and 
his mother died shortly after the loss of 
her daughter. He had no companion but 
his sister; and when she was taken away, 
the last tie which bound him to the dull 
old Mantua palace was severed. He visi- 
ted the principal seats of learning in Italy, 
sojourned in Rome and Venice, and 
learned a great many things of which his 
grim old father, who had never travelled a 
hundred miles in his life, knew nothing, 
and disliked by intuition. It was well, for 
some reasons, that this pair were kept a 
good deal apart. The son was in advance 
of his time, the father behind it. He con- 
sidered “ the house ” as a kingdom, and its 


head as a king with absolute power, even 
of life and death, over its members. 

It was out of this idea that the social 
law, mentioned in a former chapter, arose, 
and was justified. The great houses con- 
sidered themselves above the law. They 
resented interference from without; but 
were by no means slow to stretch their 
own authority when an opportunity pre- 
sented. Half the feuds and vendettas of 
the day arose out of some one having pun- 
ished some one else’s servant, or taken the 
part of some one else’s client. It was only 
wdien the class or its privileges were at- 
tacked that they stood together, and 
bearded pope, emperor, or king in defence 
of their cherished feudal rights. 

One of these was to regulate their own 
households. An unauthorized suitor came 
a-wooing with his life in his hand. His 
own kin would fight for him as long as he 
lived; but when he took the inevitable 
consequences of his rashness, his fall was, 
as a rule, unresented. If the County 
Paris had caught Romeo in Juliet’s bal- 
cony, and had disposed of him, I do not 
think there would have been any further 
slaughter of Capulets or Montagus on 
that score. Something like a verdict of 
“ served him right ” would probably have 
been recorded. Those old enemies would 
have hated each other a little more, and 
have become somewhat quicker (if possi- 
ble) to pick a quarrel; but it would not 
have suited either of them to deny the 
abstract right of any gentleman to slay, at 
sight, the gallant who might rob him of 
his promised bride. Nor would justice 
have interfered. Do you suppose that 
Romeo was banished because he killed 
Tybalt? The duke was bothered by these 
constant street brawls, and wanted peace; 
that was all. 

No noble in all Italy was more fully con- 
vinced of the wisdom and the justice of 
this principle than the old Count de Ribo- 
lini. Several times had he broached the 
subject to his son, as an abstract proposi- 
tion, but without producing any interest 
in his hearer. The time came when he 
had to put it in a more practical form. 

“ Your conduct, my son,” he said one 


A FAMILY TREE. 


day, soon after Cosmo’s return from a 
long sojourn in the queen city of the 
Adriatic, “ angers and grieves me. If 
heaven had so willed it, I should have de- 
pended upon another to uphold the honors 
and dignity of our house, and have allowed 
thee to sink into the companion of traders, 
and the friend of the foes to law and order, 
that it seems thy will to be. But my 
hopes have been disappointed. I have 
only thee; and there is a matter of grave 
import, the further concealment of which 
would be a sin against my order. Thou 
must know it, and act as becomes a Ribo- 
lini. Cosmo, my son, prepare thyself for 
a startling revelation. In the tomb of our 
race, under the inscription to the memory 
of thy sister Maria, there was no body 
laid!” 

“ Maria not dead ! ” gasped the young 
man. 

“ Dead to thee, dead to me — a thousand 
times dead to our house,” replied his 
father, sternly. “ Were she burned with 
fire, and her ashes scattered to the four 
winds of heaven, she would be less dead to 
us than she is. But yet she lives — dis- 
graced ! ” 

“ Oh, my sister!” 

“ Thou hast no sister. She who was 
once my daughter was affianced, as thou 
knowest, to Yincenti de la Torre; but 
two days before the time fixed for her 
marriage, she fled, accompanied by her 
nurse — and another.” 

“ His name, father? ” 

“ Patience. To hide our disgrace, we 
gave out that she had died suddenly, and 
a coffin, supposed to contain her remains, 
was carried in pomp to the grave. Ah, 
me! It was said that grief had burned 
up my tears. I was crushed to the earth 
— but by humiliation, Cosmo, not by sor- 
row.” 

“ Art sure — art certain there is cause ? 
Oh, father! she may not be dishonored. 
Bethink thee. Maidens have been carried 
off against their will; have been murder- 
ed, when they strayed abroad, for their 
jewels; have been drowned by accident, 
and never heard of again.” 

“Have I not told thee she lives? She 
lied of her own free will, as part of a let- 


19 

ter found in her chamber proves. She 
fled with her lover.” 

“ I was a man, and you told me not!” 
said Cosmo, through his clenched teeth. 

“ Thou vvert a rash, hot-headed boy. I 
will not so far wrong thee as to suppose 
thou wouldst have intentionally betrayed 
our secret, but thine acts would have given 
it to all Mantua before a week had passed. 
The greatest caution was required — first, 
to cover our disgrace, and next to find the 
path for our revenge.” 

“ Who knew of this? ” 

“ Thy mother and de la Torre — none 
other.” 

“ And none suspect that false burial? ” 

“ None.” 

“ ’Tis well. Now tell me how we have 
been avenged ? ” 

“ We are not yet avenged.” 

“ What ! After six years ? ” 

“ There was no clue to the man. One 
after another, the suspicions we formed 
proved groundless; but our efforts have 
not ceased — no, not for a day! — and now,” 
said the old man, more sternly than ever, 
laying his hand upon a folded paper, “ they 
are rewarded.” 

“Without my aid!” muttered his son 
with bitter reproach. 

“ The quarry is marked only — not struck 
yet. Read.” 

And he read as follows: — 

“ Most Illustrious Sir and Dear Cousin : 

“This leaves me suffering much in body 
from privation and sickness on the seas, 
but hopeful in mind. In my letter from 
Venice, which I hope was duly placed in 
thy honorable hands, which I kiss, I in- 
formed thee of the reasons which led me 
to seek in England the sequel of the dis- 
covery I had made in Florence. Thou 
didst think, I fear me, that the clue was 
too faint to warrant so long and danger- 
ous a journey; and, in good sooth, it so 
appeared. But what wouldst thou ? For 
six years we have been laboring in vain, 
and what seemed, from time to time, 
strong confirmation of our suspicions, has 
melted away as we approached it. Might 
not (for so I reasoned) what is but a little 
fact lead up to mighty things? And, 


20 


A FAMILY TREE. 


thanks to holy St. Joseph, to whom I have 
never ceased to pray, so it hath come to 
pass. 

“ Most illustrious, our good kinsman 
Marco, who, for the purposes of our plan, 
deigns to pass in public as my servant, has 
seen her, has spoken with her, and was not 
recognized ; for, as thou knowest, they 
have not met since she was a child. He 
was disguised as a beggar, and addressed 
her in her native tongue. At first she 
answered him in Italian, but took fright 
for some unknown cause, and pretended 
not to comprehend his words. She is liv- 
ing in a lonely farm-house in the province 
they call Staffordshire, where he — the 
man we seek — visits her from time to 
time. Having thus found the hen bird in 
her nest, it is easy to track her mate. By 
the time that this shall reach thee, I shall 
know him.” 

“ Let me now, if it please thee, return to 
what passed at Venice. An Englishman 
whose name I could not ascertain, set sail 
from that city, soon after the accursed day; 
with one who passed as his wife, and an 
old woman whose description proves her 
to be the traitress Bertha. The ship was 
bound for Chester, in England; but she 
was lost on her next voyage, her patron is 
dead, and there is no one living in the 
aforesaid city who can, or will, help me to 
trace the man. I am searching in neigh- 
boring towns, and this is wrote in Man- 
chester. Thou wilt ask, why not wait 
for him where she is? I will answer thee. 
There is no town within a league; and for 
us, foreigners as we are, to lurk about the 
spot would surely arouse suspicion, and 
mayhap afright our quarry; whereas, by 
hunting in a circle, we shall surely come 
upon his traces, and at last discover him 
in the place he cometh from. They are 
undoubtedly married, and have two chil- 
dren — a boy and a girl. 

“ In my love and respect for thee. Most 
Illustrious, I am as much thy son, as 
though the honor thou destined for me 
were truly mine; but our kinship is re- 
mote, and this matter is too grave for me 
to act therein at my own will. Touching 
the man my course is plain. He dies, 
but for the rest I wait thy orders. It is 


time that thy son should act in this. Send 
him to me with speed, I beseech thee, or 
write, and address thy missive to me, as 
Senor Porras of the Netherlands, at the 
‘ Golden Boar,’ in Deansgate, of the town 
of Manchester, England, by a trusty mes- 
senger, as beseems the importance thereof. 

“ Thy loving kinsman, aiTd faithful ser- 
vant, 

“ VlNCENTI.” 

In these bad young times, a brother 
whose sister had eloped would read with 
a deep sigh of relief such words as “ they 
are undoubtedly married,” but the brows 
of Cosmo Ribolini darkened more over 
that passage than any other. Was it be- 
cause a nameless adventurer had stolen a 
daughter of his house, and dared to wed 
her? His father, who was watching him 
intently as he read, thought so. He fin- 
ished the letter to its signature, and re- 
perused it, before he laid it down. Both 
father and son remained silent for a while 
— each apparently loth to be the first to 
speak. At last the younger blood gave 
way. 

“When came this to hand?” asked 
Cosmo. 

“ Tester morn, and it behoves me to act 
upon it without tarrying. Can’st not thou 
divine what I would do?” 

“ I am bewildered, surprised. I ” 

“ J Tis just that thou should’st be so,” 
interposed his father. “ I blame thee not 
for thy inability to answer me. All this 
cometh on thee of a sudden, and thou hast 
not had time to weigh w’ell its portent — I 
would give thee till to-morrow to think it 
over; but time presses. I must reply to 
the Count Vincenti this night, and thou 
must be the bearer of my letter.” 

“ j 2 ” 

“ None other. It is the duty of our 
order, my son, to act as its judges in such 
matters as this, and to be the executioners 
of its decrees. What did the De Este 
when the Visconti Spanello wooed their 
daughter against their will?” 

“ He was stabbed in her balcony, and 
she compelled to wash up his blood, like a 
menial.” 

“ True. And when the young Bene- 
detti — half-witted as he was— pretended to 


A FAMILY TREE. 


21 


have married a minnie-singer, hast heard 
what was done upon them, and their 
scum ? ” 

Cosmo turned pale, and trembled. His 
father, taking his silence as a negative, 
proceeded. 

“ They were strangled in their bed, and 
the child in its cradle.” 

“ The child too? ” 

“ Was a base jonglours brat to live and 
sit with us ? ” cried the old man fiercely. 
“And the Visconte — what did they? 
They were foiled as we have been for 
years, but their righteous vengeance — 
nay, ’tis justice my son — their justice was 
executed at last, as our’s must be ; but not 
by the Count Vincenti,” he added, with 
marked emphasis on that name. 

“ Oh Father ! do you mean that I ” 

“ Patience. Vincenti is a good man ; a 
loyal, an honorable, and a true, else had 
I not chosen him as a son. He says justly 
here (touching the letter) that the matter 
is too grave for him to manage at his will. 
But he is wrong in supposing that it is for 
him to deal with that villian who stole my 

who stole her who was once my child. 

That is my right and my duty; and as my 
age and advancing infirmity forbid me to 
cross the seas to execute them myself, I 
make thee— my heir, the future head of 
my house, my delegate. Slain by the hand 
of Vincenti, this wretch would die mur- 
dered. There are those who have hired 
daggers for their work, but I will not. I 
depend on thee, my son, for justice.” 

“You must grant me time — time to 
think, to realise this horror,” said Cosmo 
starting from his seat, and pacing the 
room, “ my brain is in a whirl. It is like 
a nightmare; I cannot realise it. My 
sister that was dead — iny loved sister for 
whom I mourned so! And she is alive, 
married in a strange land; has little chil- 
dren, and perchance is happy! Oh, my 
father, are those little children doomed? ” 

“ The boy is doomed,” replied Ribolini 
severely. “Could'st thou be guilty of 
such weakness to-morrow, I would disown 
thee, but I can allow somewhat for thy 
surprise and confusion to-day. Thou 
slialt have time to clear thy brain, and 
chase these unworthy repining®. Happy, 


sayeth thou? For shame, for shame! 
What if she be happy in her degradation ? 
The worse for her to be so. It will occupy 
me full two hours to answer my fair cousin. 
That will be time enough for thee. Thou 
can’st leave me now, and prepare to start 
at sunrise.” 

He left his father’s presence with those 
last words ringing in his ears and deaden- 
ing his mind. To start at sunrise! and it 
was long past mid-day. already. Short 
space for a man to prepare himself to be- 
come the executioner of his sister’s hus- 
band and child. He had not replied to his 
parent’s aspersions upon his conduct and 
his associates. Sons did not reply in those 
days; but as the words came back to his 
memory he felt that they were unjust. He 
the companion of traders, and friend of 
the foes to law and order! Why, there 
was not in all the world a prouder aris- 
tocracy than that inscribed in the “ Golden 
Book ” of Venice. 

Strange it is, but true, that in great 
bodily perils, or in great mental conflicts, 
some small matter will creep in and occupy 
the thoughts. A drowning man will sud- 
denly remember a trifle of his boyhood, 
and dwell upon it. We have now before 
us one who, amidst the astonishing reve- 
lations just made to him, could do little 
but fret over the implied assertion that he 
was unworthy of his order; and it was 
this grievance, founded on truth, which, 
though he did not trace its workings, 
hardened his heart later on to the duty he 
was commanded to perform. Let the 
function be as hard or as disagreeable as 
you will, once dignify it as one’s right, and 
no man cares to see it usurped, or to be 
superseded in its exercise. 

Cosmo Ribolini began to hate the Count 
Vincenti for what he might have been, 
and for what he had done. Had not his 
father told him in almost as many words, 
that if the count had married his sister he 
would have become the head of the house ? 
And this because he (Cosmo) preferred 
gay, bright, beautiful Venice, the home of 
art and science, to dull old Mantua. He 
— the only son, the heir — grown man as he 
was, had been treated like a child; family 
secrets kept back from him, and another, 


22 


A FAMILY TREE. 


all but a stranger, set to vindicate the 
family honor in his place. He was bitterly 
jealous of the Count Yincenti, and he 
found a grim satisfaction in the thought 
that he was going to balk him of the ven- 
geance of which he wrote so confidently. 

By the time he reached Venice he had 
ceased to grieve about his sister. “ The 
man ” was to die, and her sorrow would 
be the same, no matter by whose hand he 
fell. She need not know who killed him. 
About the child, he had formed a plan in 
accordance with the letter of his father’s 
orders. The child had done no harm, and 
might live, but not as a Ribolini. In this 
also he would thwart the hated Yincenti. 

When Ribolini told his son what had be- 
fallen the plebeian wife and child of the heir 
of the Benedette, by way of preparation for 
the duty he had to perform towards the ad- 
venturer who had stolen his sister, and 
their male offspring, I have said that he 
grew pale, and trembled. He had repeated 
unmoved the fate of that unwelcome lover. 
He knew well enough that a man who 
went a-wooing amongst his superiors, 
carried his life in his hand; but this was 
the first time he had heard of the patri- 
cians’ “justice” overtaking a woman who 
had married above her sphere. Such in- 
stances were so rare as to be almost un- 
known. If a peasant maiden found favor 
in the eyes of a noble, he adopted the 
simple Sabine plan. There was no talk of 
priest or ring. 

The young Benedette was an imbecile, 
and the woman who entrapped him a 
pariah; what could it matter to Cosmo 
that her neck was wrung ? Well, it caused 
him a rude awakening from an idea as old 
as “ society ” itself, that things which dis- 
graced a woman are permissible to a man. 
He considered that his sister had disgraced 
herself and her race by wedding one that 
did not belong to her world. Had he been 
a Bayard, or a Crichton, and not noble, 
it would have been the same; but he re- 
membered certain vows he had breathed 
in the ear of one not of his world— no 
minnie-singer girl was she — and a cold 
tremor ran through him to the very mar- 
row of his bones. 

Oft had he reasoned with himself, “ She 


has beauty and wit enough to grace a 
throne. She is good and pure as the 
angels in heaven. What if her lineage be 
not noble — I do not sink to her level — I 
raise her to mine.” 

As his father spoke, he asked himself 
would her beauty and goodness weigh in 
the balance against her ignoble blood. 
The minnie-singer w r as strangled, not for 
being a wanton, but because she w&s a 
wife. The marriage was the crime. This 
made him tremble. 

It was but a passing qualm. His case 
was so different (our own cases always 
are.) He was noble, and could do as he 
pleased. In a few years, perhaps months, 
he would be master of his own destiny, 
and who would judge him then? Before 
he set sail from Venice he renewed his 
love-pledge to the daughter of a merchant, 
and departed to kill a merchant’s son for 
having espoused his sister. 

In the days of my youth, when I read 
novels, sub rosa — or, to speak more accu- 
rately, under a certain umbrageous yew 
tree — readers were fond of making margi- 
nal notes of admiration and otherwise. 
The volumes I get from my circulating li- 
brary now, bear few of such criticisms. 
We read faster, I suppose, and care less 
for what we read. Nevertheless, I fancy I 
hear exclamations of “ ridiculous,” “ im- 
* possible,” in connection with the last par- 
agraph. What! take a human creature’s 
life for doing what you deliberately pro- 
pose to do yourself? Absurd! Unjust, if 
you please, but not unnatural. You think 
it good fun, my dear young friend, to 
dance with the lady’s maid at the servants’ 
ball ; but you don’t like to see your cousin 
Mary waltzing with the footman. Ana- 
lyze the reason, and you will understand 
Cosmo Ribolini. 


CHAPTER Y. 

AMOR VINCIT OMNIA. 

Arrived in Venice, Cosmo Ribolini 
went straight to the house — I might say 
palace — of one of its merchant princes, 
Bartolomeo Bosco, by whom he was hearti- 
ly received. 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“The saints be praised !” he cried, as he 
ran down the steps leading to the canal. 
“ It is indeed thy honorable seif! I could 
scarce believe it. Give me thy hand, most 
illustrious. Thou art come to us again — 
so soon.” 

“So soon!” laughed the young noble, 
stepping from his gondola; “ have I worn 
out my welcome ? ” 

“Nay, it is as good as new; but didst 
thou not say when we parted last that my 
lord, thy father, opposed thy sojourn 
here?” 

“ In sooth he did, but it is at his bidding 
that I am come.” 

“ Blessed be the reason, whatsoe’er it be. 
Get thee in, get thee in, and leave me to 
deal with thy baggage. Ho la! Pietro, 
Carlo ! Lazy rascals ! dost thou not hear 
me call? ” 

Nothing loth, Cosmo entered the house, 
and made for a certain balcony where a 
white robe fluttered. 

The wearer had seen the arrival of a 
goudola, but was too deeply plunged in 
thought to heed it. They were not happy 
thoughts, if we might judge by the sad 
expression which filled her large black 
eyes. An open book lay unnoticed in her 
lap, and one soft little hand was pressed 
upon the bosom of her dress, pressing a 
golden locket to her heart. Like “ a 
daughter of the gods, divinely tall and 
most divinely fair,” was she. Of a state- 
ly, almost regal beauty, which in repose 
seemed cold and passionless, and required 
a touch of sadness, or of another emotion 
soon to flash upon her, to make it lovable. 

A light step in the corridor behind her, 
two hands on her eyes, a cry, two names, 

and dear ladies ; as it is in the days of 

Queen Victoria, so it was in the reign of 
James I., when true lovers met. 

The beautiful face was not sad now. 

“Ah, Cosmo! no more.” 

“ One.” 

As he drew her towards him, she started 
and turned pale. 

“ Thy father?” 

“ Lives, caressima! and is well — for him. 
Didst fancy I had come to claim thee? 
Ah, no, not yet. Patience, my soul. God 
forbid that I should wish the old man ill, 


23 

though he loves me not. Patience for a 
little longer.” 

“ For a lifetime if needs be, caro mio,” 
she replied. “ It w r as but a thought which 
flashed across my mind. I had not hoped 
to see thee again till— till then. Thou 
hast not angered, hast no disobeyed him?” 
she asked quickly. 

“ Nay. On the contrary, he is better 
pleased with me now than he has been for 
many years.” 

“ He knows that thou art here ? ” 

“ He knows that I shall pass here on 
my travels.” 

“ Thy travels? ” 

“Yes, beloved; I am but a bird of pas- 
sage. I take the first ship for England.” 

She crept closer to him, and he felt her 
shudder in his arms. 

“ Why, thou faint heart! ” he said cheer- 
fully. “ Thou a merchant’s daughter, and 
dost fear the sea ? ” 

“ I know its perils,” she replied. “ Oh, 
Cosmo, must thou go? ” 

“Indeed, indeed, I must; but have no 
fear, sweet; at this season there are notv 
storms.” 

“ Storms are not the only perils of the 
cruel sea.” 

“ But they are the gravest.” 

“ Not so. The fury of the tempest is 
nothing in comparison to the cruelty of 
man. Hast never heard,” she added, in 
low, frightened tones, “how my dear 
father was captured by pirates, and chained 
like a slave to the oar in their galley?” 

“No,” he replied, with interest; “tell 
me the tale. It ended happily, I know.” 

“ It happened when I was five years old, 
and my sainted mother was yet alive. We 
were not then as rich as we are now, but 
prosperous. My father had a great ven- 
ture, in which he had sunk not only all his 
substance, but borrowed money; coming 
from the Indies. It was to be shipped at 
Alexandria, and thither he went himself 
to act as supercargo. All went well. The 
caravan arrived safe, the goods were laden 
on board his vessel, and he set sail for 
home. After a few days he encountered 
contrary winds, and was at last becalmed 
off the coast of Tripoli, where the ship was 
attacked by Moorish pirates. Three gal- 


24 


A FAMILY TREE. 


leys full of armed men grappled her. Her 
crew — outnumbered twenty to one — made 
a gallant resistance, but were soon over- 
powered. She was captured, taken pos- 
session of by the pirates, and my dear 
father, wounded as he was, removed to 
one of their galleys, and chained to the 
oar. At first they wished to kill him, for 
he had struck down one of their leaders, 
but this was the more cruel fate reserved 
for him.” 

“Horrible!” said Cosmo, wi th a shud- 
der. “And for how long did he endure 
such torture ? ” 

“ For five days only, thanks be to God ! 
A storm separated the galleys from the 
ship, and drove that in which he was, out 
to sea. They were all but wrecked, with 
broken oars and split sails they lay at the 
mercy of the waves, which my poor father 
prayed might overwhelm and free him 
from his misery. Well, at dawn of the 
fifth day a ship passed close by— an Eng- 
lish ship. The Moors made signs that 
they were in want of provisions, and the 
galley was taken alongside. 4 Is there any 
one on board * said the Captain, 4 who 
can understand their tongue ? ’ There 
was none. ‘Can any of you speak 
a language that a Christian can com- 
prehend ?’ asked the captain again, after 
having consulted a tall, handsome man 
— apparently a passenger — who stood 
by his side. No answer. Then the pas- 
senger made a like demand, first in French, 
and then, to my poor father’s delight, in 
Italian. ‘ I can,’ he cried. 4 Oh, signor, 
these are pirates; they have taken my ship 
and chained me here. Help, help, for the 
love of God!’ Although the Moors did 
not understand his words they saw their 
effect, and hastened to cast off the ropes 
which bound the galley to the ship, but in 
an instant that passenger was at my 
father’s side, sword in hand, and at his call 
the English sailors came swarming down, 
and soon the tables were turned. The 
pirates were bound and my father free. 
He had barely time to tell all that had 
happened, when he fainted from ex- 
haustion and pain. His wound, his expo- 
sure to the cruel weather, and his agony 
of mind brought on a fever, through which 


his deliverer nursed him like a brother; 
and the first thing he heard when he re- 
gained consciousness was, that the gallant 
English, instigated by that good man, had 
put back, intercepted his own vessel, and 
recaptured her.” 

“ But he was no gainer by that,” Cosmo 
observed. 

“ Our law gave him back one-third, and 
the English were quite contented with 
their share.” 

44 1 hope the passenger was richly re- 
warded ? ” 

“He would not accept anything but 
some curiously carved iron-work — of no 
real value — there was on board; but he 
has his reward — the good God will bless 
him. His name is in my prayers mom 
and night.” 

“ Tell me that name, caressima, that I, 
too, may honor it.” 

44 Hugo Desmond.” 

“ Hast seen him, thou? ” 

44 Once only, when — ” she checked her- 
self, and flushed crimson, “ but that is a 
secret to be kept even from thee ! ” 

44 Have a care,” said her lover. 44 1 may 
be jealous of this tall, handsome cavalier.” 

44 Foolish one ! it w’as six years ago, 
when I was yet a child, and — well, I may 
tell thee this much — he has a wife whom 
he loves dearly.” 

44 Shall I see— shall I know him ? ” 

“I think not: he lives a roving life. 
Join your prayers with mine, if you love 
me, Cosmo, that the blessed saints may 
have him in their care — him, and all dear 
to him. Thou dost pray, my Cosmo? ” 

44 Sometimes,” replied the young noble, 
drily. 

44 Ah, Cosmo ! promise me thou wilt do 
so always.” 

44 Always!” 

44 Nay, thou knowest what I would. 
Promise that morn and eve, when I am 
kneeling to Heaven, I may know that 
thou also art seeking pardon and mercy 
amidst thy perils.” 

44 And a blessing for Hugo Desmond?” 
he asked with a loving smile. 

44 Aye, dearest, and a blessing for Hugo 
Desmond.” 

The merchant came bustling in as they 


A FAMILY TREE. 


25 


were speaking, his jolly face one smile, but 
when he heard that name it suddenly 
became serious. 

“ What of Hugo Desmond?” he asked, 
almost severely. 

“ Marcelina was telling of thy escape 
from captivity, my good host, as a warning 
to me of the perils of the sea, and she bade 
me pray for thy brave deliverer.” 

“ Was that all? ” said Bosco, turning to 
his daughter. 

“ My father, can you doubt ” she 

began. 

“Enough,” he interrupted, in a low 
voice. “I know I can trust thee. My 
lord,” he said aloud, “ there is not a man 
in all this world whom I revere — nay, love 
— as I love Hugo Desmond. But for him 
this dear child would have been fatherless. 
I owe my life, my fortune, to him. I love 
all Englishmen for his sake. He is a man 
of men; earnest, generous, brave. ’Twould 
do thee no harm to pray for such an one, 
or to find such an one at thy side in the 
hour of need. But what hast thou to do 
with the perils of the sea? ” 

“ I am bound for England, good Bosco. 
Thou must aid me, my friend, to find a 
ship.” 

“ That can I do right easily,” said the 
merchant. “ One of mine own will sail in 
a few days, and, if it please thee, thou 
shalt have passage in her. But must thou 
leave us so soon ? ” 

“ In good sooth I am pressed for time, 
but on my return ” 

“ ’Tis well, thou knowest best thine own 
affairs, and ’tis a fair season for the 
voyage.” 

“ Say, my father,” asked Marcelina, “ be 
there pirates now ? ” 

“ A fig for pirates ! ” cried Bosco ; “ I am 
wiser than I was. The good ship Venus 
has teeth, my child; four goodly culverins 
that would sink them and their cursed 
galleys ere they could say Marsliallah ! Our 
fair guest shall sail in her, and — if his busi- 
ness detain him not too long—she shall 
await his return.” 

“ Thou art not a prince of merchants, as 
they call thee, but a king,” said Cosmo, 
pressing his hand. “ A thousand thanks. 
I take thee at thy word. The time will 


come when it will be my joy to try and 
act as nobly by thee as thou dost to me 
this day.” 

“ My Lord Cosmo Ribolini,” said the 
merchant with dignity, “ the service I 
offer you is but a small one ; it is done in 
the due course of my business, and costs 
me nothing; but were it ten times greater 
it would not warrant what thou hast said. 
Thou hast deigned to speak as though we 
were equals; we are not, and can never 
be. Thou art a noble — I, a trader. No 
service of mine can bridge over the gulf 
between us. The noblest conduct thou 
canst follow is to bear the existence of 
that gulf ever in thy mind.” 

A rapid glance passed between the 
lovers, and each heart beat, “ Can he sus- 
pect? ” 

He did not suspect, but he feared. He 
knew his daughter’s character too well to 
entertain the common dread his order had 
of gay young nobles; and wild as Cosmo 
Ribolini was represented to be, there was 
that about him which satisfied his host 
that he would not abuse his hospitality, or 
he would not have welcomed him as he 
did. But there was unhappiness, which 
might fall upon his only child. This 
handsome Cosmo might win her heart in 
spite of herself, and, as he could not give 
her his hand, the careful parent was glad 
of the oppportunity made by his too 
fervid expression of thanks, to warn them 
both as he did. His words, “ the noblest 
conduct thou canst follow is to bear the 
existence of that gulf ever in thy mind ,” 
sank deep into both their hearts. 

Later on, when alone with Marcelina, 
he returned to the subject. 

“ The Count Ribolini is old, and, 1 hear, 
afflicted with an incurable malady, which 
may end his days at any moment. I 
marvel much that he should send his only 
son on so long a voyage. Did he tell thee 
what the business was ? ” 

“ No, nor did I ask him.” 

“ Thou didst right. The affairs of these 
nobles are naught to us, my daughter. 
Mayhap it is some scheme of marriage.” 

A cold shudder passed through her, 
but she forced a smile and said — 

“ Are the ladies of Italy so ill-favored 


26 


A FAMILY TREE 


that he need seek a bride in that cold 
island ? ” 

“Such as the Ribolini do not seek their 
brides, my child; they are found for them. 
They marry to uphold and increase the 
family power. Beauty, or even love, has 
little part in their unions. We are more 
happy. Thou canst give thy heart with 
thy hand, my Marcelina; and thy old 
father is rich enough to let thee have thy 
choice — be he an honest man, and thy 
equal.” 

She did not answer him, although there 
was a tone of interrogation in his last 
words; but changed the subject. 

“Wilt thou not send some greeting to 
our benefactor? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Father mine, should he by any means 
learn that the Count Cosmo was our 
friend, and had left us empty-handed, he 
would deem it unkind, ungrateful.” 

“ Not so.” 

“And his dear wife — that beautiful 
lady I saw but for a few moments, but 
shall always remember” — Marcelina per- 
sisted ; “ she would delight to hear from 
her country. I know I should if I lived in 
a foreign land.” 

“Marcelina, I conjure thee to say no 
more. Dearly as I love Hugo Desmond, I 
forbid thee to mention his name to any- 
one, or to speak again of that — of that 
lady.” 

“ Oh, father! is she not a good woman ?” 

“ As good as the angels in heaven, but 
she is the cause of his being in deadly 
peril. Thou art of an age to understand 

such matters, and well, it is good that 

thou sliouldst know. That lady is of 
noble birth; I know not her name or her 
lineage. I did not ask, and I will not. 
Hugo w r ould have trusted me with the 
secret, but I bade him not. I might un- 
wittingly have betrayed it and him. It 
rested with the priest who married them 
In this very house six years ago, and he is 
dead. Desmond, a man of the people, the 
son of a merchant like myself, mark you, 
my child— stole a noble maiden, and if her 
kin can ever find him they will slay him.” 

“ Oh horrible ! ” 

M, Tis their law. They brook no un- 


equal marriages with man or woman. I 
tell you again, if the father or the brothers 
of that lady can ever trace Hugo Desmond 
— God grant they never may! — he is a 
doomed man. No power can save him, no 
sanctuary protect him. Wherefore, my 
child, be prudent; the very walls have 
ears. I love thee that thou bearest the 
name of this good man in reverence. Let 
it be between thee and thy God; and, 
above all, not a word of the lady — not a 
word of the secret marriage — only remem- 
ber what I have said. Nobles who mate 
below them bring death as a marriage- 
portion.” 

He left her stunned wdth this awful 
warning. 

For the next three days she avoided 
meeting Cosmo, save in the presence of 
her father; and her lover— lover-like — set 
down her sad silence to sorrow at their 
approaching separation, and her affec- 
tionate fears for his safety. To distract 
her thoug ts, he assumed a gayness he 
was far from feeling, and this cut her to 
the heart. 

“He must know,” she mused, “ the fate 
his love has brought upon me. If I marry 
him, I die; if 1 marry him not, I die. Oh 
woe is me ! ” 

Then she thought. When his father i3 
dead and he claims me, as he has promised, 
for his wife — who shall say him nay? We 
might leave this land where such cruel 
social laws prevail, and be happy elsewhere, 
as Hugo Desmond and his high-born bride 
doubtless are. He must have thought of 
this. But what afterwards? An exile, 
severed from country, home, friends; his 
rank and splendor lost, would not his 
heart sometimes grow cold to me as the 
cause? Better death than that. Should 
she give him back his troth? Ardently 
as she loved him, she had not been lightly 
"won. She had fought hard against her 
passion, but it had conquered her, become 
part of her, was her. Give him up? Bet- 
ter death than that. And so all her 
thoughts, her hopes, her fears, moved 
round in a circle, whose centre seemed to 
be a grave. 

The sails of the good ship Venus had 
hardly paled away in the blue horizon, 


A FAMILY TREE. 


when a messenger arrived from Mantua, 
with a packet marked “ haste ; post haste ” 
for the Viscount Cosmo Ribolini. 

What was the purport of that packet? 
Was it to recall the Count? Had the 
bearer no verbal message Bosco asked. 
The courier had no such message, only the 
packet. He knew nothing about it, only 
this — that the old lord had been found 
dead in his bed two days after his son had 
left him ! 

What was to be done ? The Venus was 
one of the fastest ships of her day. There 
w*as no chance of overtaking her, and 
Cosmo had left no address where he might 
be found in England! There was no 
necessity, he said — he would return so 
soon — but the merchant had pressed upon 
him a letter of recommendation, and credit 
to his (Bosco’s) correspondent, Martin 
Earle, the goldsmith of London. He 
would perhaps know how to communicate 
the news. Bosco went to the port and 
found that another ship was loading, 
but would not sail for at least a month. 
Like a prince as he was, he took up the 
charter, and despatched her at once, half 
laden. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A FRIEND IN NEED. 

Martin Earle the goldsmith, lived at 
the sign of the “ Crown ” in Lombard 
street — lived and carried on his business, 
as his father and his grandfather had done 
before him, in that same house. There 
also lived his “ ’prentices,” until such time 
as they should set up in business for them- 
selves, or join him in partnership, as in- 
dustrious “ ’prentices ” sometimes did. A 
sound, wealthy, hard-headed man was 
Martin Earle, and a kind-hearted to boot. 
He had no care. What banking business 
was done in those days belonged to the 
goldsmiths. They lent money, sold letters 
of credit and so on, in a safe old-fashioned 
way. There was no speculation, in our 
sense of the term, and little rivalry amongst 
them ; for they had each his own custom- 
ers at home and abroad, and in many cases 
his special connection with foreign parts 


27 

in the enjoyment of which he was left un- 
disturbed. 

Thus, did your business call you to Paris 
or to the Indies, or had you a debt to re- 
cover at Smyrna or Madrid, you could find 
out without much trouble to whom you 
should apply for funds, information, or 
assistance. Martin Earle was a member 
of the company of merchants trading to 
the Levant, then not long incorporated, 
and had business of weight with Mediter- 
ranean' ports. 

He had two “ ’prentices,” but unfortu- 
nately for them, no daughters for marriage. 
He was childless, but one of those “ ’pren- 
tices ” — his nephew — stood to him as a son, 
and was destined some day to inherit his 
wealth. Young Richard Earle was a cut 
above the ordinary “ ’prentice ” lad of the 
period. He had been given more school- 
ing than ordinarily came to their lot, and 
being spared much of the common drudge- 
ry of his class, had time to digest and add 
to what he had learned. Nevertheless, 
when “ ’prentices! clubs! ” was the cry in 
Cheapside, this gallant was always fore- 
most in the fray, and although the indul- 
gence shown to him threw some extra 
work upon his fellow, John Eastman, they 
w-ere the best of friends. 

Dick Earle was a bit of a dandy, and 
lazy with hands and heels when there was 
no fighting going on. He had a fine capa- 
city for looking on when hard work was 
to the fore, or ordinary customers to be 
served, but let a lady come into the shop, 
there was no one like Dick to persuade her 
that she must have this buckle or chain, 
and beguile her of her broad pieces. It 
was customary With goldsmiths to send 
new or curious wares round to their 
patrons for inspection, and many a noble 
mansion had handsome Dick entered, not 
unsuccessfully, on such missions. More- 
over he was a scholar. Not only could he 
read and write English, but he had set 
himself to learn Italian — then, as now, the 
language of Levantine commence — and by 
the time we make his acquaintance, was 
able to translate and answer the letters 
which his uncle and master received from 
abroad. 

One fine July afternoon, there strolled 


28 


A FAMILY TREE. 


into Lombard street a young gentleman 
clad in raiment of a foreign cut, with that 
half nervous, half puzzled expression upon 
his face which the Briton who finds him- 
self for the first time in a strange city may 
see reflected in the plate glass windows. 
He had the idea that eyeryone was watch- 
ing him, and asking themselves what he 
wanted; whereas, no one troubled himself 
about him. He went into several houses 
and quickly came out; the puzzled and 
nervous look changing into one of vexa- 
tion. He gave a fierce twist to his mous- 
tache, and then he laughed. What was 
the use of getting angry because people 
did not understand him. He crossed the 
road to where Martin Earle sat in the sun- 
shine before his shop, and made as though 
he would speak to him, but the jolly John 
Bull face of the goldsmith did not seem to 
promise well, and he was in the act of 
passing on, when he pricked up his ears 
and stopped. What had he heard? The 
refrain of an Italian boat song, rolled out 
in a pleasant tenor. 

“ Pardon me, sir,” he said in the same 
tongue, “ but there is one ” 

A roar of “ Ho, Dick ! ” interrupted him, 
and out came the warbler. 

“ An Italian gentleman, Dick. Speak to 
him; speak him fairly, boy said Martin 
Earle. 

The stranger’s face brightened at the 
sound of his own language, as that of a 
starving man who is welcomed to food. 

“ What could be done for his Excel- 
lency ? ” 

His Excellency desired to find one Mar- 
tin Earle. 

“ Why, that’s me,me, me,” said the gold- 
smith giving to his own broad chest three 
digs, each one harder than the other, just 
as he emphasised the pronoun. Worthy 
man! He thought, as do many of his 
descendants, that if you speak bad gram- 
mar loudly, and gesticulate a little, foreign- 
ers are sure to understand you. And this 
foreigner did understand, and understand- 
ing him, addressed him, whereupon the 
goldsmith scratched his head, and looked 
imploringly at Dick. More conversation 
in Italian ensued between the two who 
could speak it, in the course of which the 


one who could not, caught the name of 
Bosco. 

“ Not old Bartolomeo ? ” cried the latter. 
“ Does he speak of my friend ? Has he 
come from Bosco of Venice? Has he 
aught for me from Bosco? Quit thy 
grimacing, thou jackanapes!” (this to 
Dick). “ And answer me.” 

“ Prythee, good uncle, interrupt us not. 
How can I tell thee till I hear myself? ” 

“ Thou wilt learn nothing by bowing 
and scraping and waving thy cap, mala- 
pert! Ask him roundly cometh he from 
Bosco ? ” 

Again the stranger appeared to under- 
stand. It is not the fashion to come 
straight to your point amongst his country- 
men. Southern politeness requires a good 
deal of beating about the bush, but the 
anxiety evinced by Martin Earle had its 
reward, and in a few minutes Master Dick 
was able to translate their visitor’s busi- 
ness. 

He had, indeed, come from Bartolomeo 
Bosco, of Venice, and had a letter from 
that worthy to his friend, but unfortu- 
nately it was in his baggage, which was 
following him. He l?ad landed about a 
week ago at Southampton, and was bound 
for Manchester, but had undergone so 
much trouble and delay on his journey 
through ignorance of English, that he had 
resolved not to go on alone. His object 
was to find this Martin Earle, to whom he 
had been recommended to apply in case of 
need, and ask him to provide a guide and 
interpreter. He had waited for his lug- 
gage to arrive until he was out of patience ; 
indeed, he almost feared it was lost on the 
way, so he sallied out in quest of the man 
he relied upon, and lo! he had stumbled 
upon him when about to give up the 
search in despair. Now if he had gone 
into any shop within half a mile, and 
simply said, “ Martin Earle,” he would 
have got the required information, but he 
doffed his plumed hat, and begged to be 
excused, and gave the “ time of day,” and 
compliments, all in an unknown tongue 
to those he addressed, by way of polite 
preliminary, and only got stared at for his 
pains. His dress, though of costly ma- 
terial, was travel-stained, and perhaps 


A FAMILY TREE. 


those good people thought he wanted 
something beyond information, and gave 
him the brusque “ No, no, no; don’t un- 
derstand,” which Britons, even in these 
enlightened times, will rap out when ad- 
dressed, hat in hand, by foreigners of seedy 
appearance. 

But his troubles were over now. Mar- 
tin Earle would not even hear all that 
Dick had to translate. It was enough for 
him to know that his visitor came from 
Bosco. He hustled him into the house, 
and roared out to have the great chamber 
prepared, and a meal spread instantly. It 
was part of his creed— and a good creed, 
too— that a traveller must be hungry — or 
thirsty, anyhow. In this case he was 
right. The money Cosmo Ribolini put in 
his purse when he left Southampton had 
been exhausted some days, and already 
the Drawers at his hostel in the Barbican 
had begun to mistrust a guest without a 
change of raiment, who ate and drank of 
the best. The goldsmith was delighted to 
see him do such justice to the viands set 
before him, and hear the contented “ ha-a” 
with which he put down his first goblet of 
Lacrimse Christi. To taste your own drink 
in a strange land is almost as good as hear- 
ing your own tongue. I, who write, am 
old enough to remember the days when 
the wandering Briton was not sure of his 
bitter beer abroad, and I have emitted just 
such another “ ha-a ” as did the noble 
Cosmo — over the humble pewter as soon 
as possible after landing at St. Katharine’s 
Wharf. It would have been all the more 
refreshing if it had been found under other 
skies, as was the bright liquor which went 
straight to the cockles of the young Man- 
tuan’s heart. He ate and drank his fill, 
Dick waiting upon him, and his host buz- 
zing about like a great hospitable bumble- 
bee, and asking every moment “ What 
sayetli he ? what doth he need ? ” as 
though every sentence were a request. 
Then came further explanations. 

Taking his cue from his worthy kins- 
man, Count Vincenti de la Torre, the elder 
Ribolini had ordered his son to take an 
assumed name on his travels, and this he 
had already done. Mine host of the “ Gold 
Boar” knew him as Master Pietri, and 


29 

Master Pietri he would have remained, 
but for this accident to his baggage. 

Politeness required him to accept the 
letter of recommendation to Martin Earle 
which Bosco had offered, but he had no 
intention of using it. He did not want 
them to know in Venice that his mission 
was of such a character as to require a 
falsehood. Stern necessity obliged him to 
appear in his true colors, and the good 
goldsmith, who had taken him for a clerk, 
or a travelling agent at the best, was awe- 
struck when he found that he had enter- 
tained a viscount unawares. 

“Gramercy!” he cried, “ I’ve slapped 
him on the back, and he is a lord ! ” 

The Italian’s mother wit turned this to 
good account. 

“ See now,” he said to Dick, “ what a 
change has come over you all now you 
know my rank ! It was much better at 
first, only I could not deceive you. Let it 
be as it was. I want to see your country 
in a familiar manner. I can do so much 
better as a simple gentleman, than as a 
noble of Italy. I pray thee beg thy good 
uncle to forget what in honor I have told 
him, and let me be always Signor Pietri. 
My title as the friend of Bosco of Venice 
has served me so well, that I need no 
other.” 

There was nothing strange in men of 
rank travelling incognito, and so he was 
allowed to have his way. None but Dick, 
the interpreter, and his uncle, knew the 
secret. A change of linen was looked out 
for him, and Dick lent him a bran new 
suit, just out of the tailor’s hands, and de- 
signed, no doubt, to destroy the peace of 
mind of Fleet street belles. 

Old Martin played his part pretty well 
except once, when — nothing having been 
heard for some days of the visitor’s bag- 
gage — his housekeeper, careful woman! 
breathed fears that he might be an impos- 
tor. Then the cat was very nearly let out 
of the bag. At last the arrant valises 
turned up, whereat the goldsmith was de- 
lighted. but did not slap his guest on the 
back again. 

In the meantime Dick — who did not 
stand much in awe of lords — took Cosmo 
(or Signor Pietri) about, and showed him 


30 


A FAMILY TREE. 


the London of that day in style, with the 
assistance of the goldsmith’s broad pieces. 
It was a rare time lor Dick, and he made 
the most of it, you may be sure. The two 
became fast friends, and Master ’Prentice 
jumped at the idea of prolonging the en- 
joyment by becoming himself the guide 
and companion which the Italian sought. 

“ We will take our time,” said the latter, 
“ and have a pleasant journey. There are 
places of interest between this and Man- 
chester?” 

“ Of a surety,” Dick replied. “ Why, 
there’s Oxford.” 

“ I would fain visit that seat of learn- 
ing.” 

“ ’Tis not on the direct road.” 

“ No matter.” 

“ Then on the way back ” began 

Dick. 

“I shall trouble thee no further than 
to Manchester,” the other interrupted. “ I 
hope to find a countryman there who 
speaks English, and will relieve thee of thy 
burden.” 

“ It is no 4 burden,’ ” replied the ’pren- 
tice ; “ but of course your excellency ” 
(Dick liked to excellency him when they 
w r ere alone) “ will be glad to be once more 
with your own people and with your own 
class.” 

“ lam not so sure of that.” Cosmo said 
half to himself; “ my own people and my 
own class impose things upon me which I 
would gladly escape. They impose things 
upon me in which thou, Ricardo mio, must 
not be mixed up.” 

“I should not presume ” Dick be- 

gan, apologetically. 

“ No, no, it is not that. I see what is 
passing in thy mind. It is not what you 
think. I am not ashamed of thee, altro ! 
I would call thee my friend before them 
all. Would to God they were half as 
honest and true as thou art; but — I can- 
not tell thee why thou must leave me in 
Manchester. Trust me that it is for thy 
good. Mayhap thou wilt hear something, 

and then . Thou canst not understand 

my conduct, but promise that thou wilt 
not condemn it.” 

“ You speak as though you condemned 
it yourself,” replied honest Dick. 


There was a tone of indecision and sor- 
row in his companion’s last address quite 
unnatural to him, and which Dick did not 
like. 

“The Holy Virgin help me!” Cosmo 
moaned ; “ sometimes I do. Thou hast no 
father?” 

“ He died when I was a child, but my 
uncle ” 

“ Yes, yes, I know. Thou loveth him 
well. Uncles are not fathers though. If 
thy father lived, and he laid it upon thee 
to do a certain thing, thou wouldst obey, 
and do it? ” 

“ If it were right.” 

“He would be the judge of that.” 

“ Not so,” persisted sturdy Dick. 

“How! Thou wouldst not venerate a 
father’s command ? ” 

“Not if it were to do an ill deed.” 

“ If his blessing depended upon thy obe- 
dience? ” 

“ The blessing of one who would so or- 
der is nothing worth.” 

“ Is this thy English faith? ” 

“ Of a verity it is. Of what avail is a 
father’s blessing if it bring down the curse 
of God and the contempt of all honest 
men ?” 

“ Thou speakest safely, as thou hast no 
father. ” 

#t My father was an honest man, and 
would not have laid upon me aught that 
was wrong, as — as ” 

“ Proceed. As mine has done, thou 
wouldst say. Tush! Thou art an honest 
lad ; but meddle not with what thou canst 
not comprehend.” 

It was the haughty Mantuan noble who 
spoke now, not Signor Pietri. 

Dick flushed up too. 

“ Nay, I meddle not. Go thine own 
way. But,” he added, quickly, “ if there 
be plotting against the king ” 

“ There is not, on my soul — on my word 
there is not!” interrupted the other, 
warmly. “ Have no fear; there is naught 
that can implicate thee. Why, man ! I 
was but drawing thee out. Dost think 
that a Ribolini would lead any man, much 
less his son, from the path of honor? ” 

Dick had not read of Machiavel’s famous 
inquiry as to the origin of evil, but he said 


A FAMILY TREE. % 31 


to himself, “ There’s a woman in this.” 
And, indeed, there was that in Signor 
Pietri’s manner — his absent thoughts, his 
forced gaiety at times, and his occasional 
fits of moody silence — which bore out the 
idea that he was a victim to the son of 
Venus. So the discussion above recorded 
did not remain long on Dick’s mind (no-, 
thing did), and they were as good friends 
afterwards as before. 

The goldsmith was curious to know 
what was the purport of Cosmo’s business 
in Lancashire, and asked Dick privately 
if he had any knowledge of it. 

Dick had none, and told his master 
what their visitor had said about parting 
there. 

“ It is my belief,” he concluded, “ that 
the less we ask him about it the better he 
will be pleased.” 

“ Oh, I seek not to meddle,” said Martin 
Earle; “ only, for Bosco’s sake, I would do 
all in my power for the gentleman. I was 
thinking that I might offer him a recom- 
mendation to my good friend Hugh Des- 
mond, who lives there.” 

“Leave him to his own people, uncle 
mine,” said Dick. 

“ Thou knowcst Master Desmond? ” 

“ Surely.” 

“ Well, thou canst see him when thou 
hast discharged thy mission, and greet him 
for me.” 

There was only one person whom these 
arrangements did not suit, and that was 
John Eastman. 

Dick had broken several people’s heads 
for calling his fellow-’prentice “ his dog.” 
There was an implied sneer at John in 
this, which was lost upon its object, who 
was quite content to be his idol’s “ dog,” 
in the sense of a creature who loved him 
and was faithful, and would fly at the 
throat of any one who attacked him. 

“ I’d sooner be Dick Earl’s dog than 
your master.” he would growl, in answer 
to the charge. 

To find himself dethroned from his high 
estate, and, worse still, to see Dick become 
the “ dog ” of a foreign stranger, was gall 
and wormwood to John. He had the true 
’prentice distrust and contempt for foreign- 


ers in general; and this one in particular 
filled him with suspicion. 

John Eastman was no fool. He noticed 
that both Dick and his uncle treated the 
stranger, when they thought they were 
alone with him, with marked deference. 
They sought to “ hedge,” so to speak, in 
this way for familiarities which they were 
obliged to use in public. There was that 
letter, too, from Bosco of Venice. Why 
had the goldsmith locked it up in his pri- 
vate drawer, instead of placing it with the 
rest of the correspondence? 

“ If I could only get that for an hour 
or two, I should know something, though 
it is written in Italian.” 

What a power is jealousy? Nothing 
short of it could have made bluff John 
Eastman an eavesdropper, and a would-be 
purloiner of his master’s keys. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“I HAVE THEE NOW; GOOD MASTER 
DESMOND.” 

I have left Master Hugh Desmond too 
long under an accusation of having com- 
mitted murder and buried his victim in 
the old brewhouse. His innocence is best 
proved by my stating at once, that the 
bones found by the constable and his men 
were not human relics at all. The one 
examined by Signor Porras showed (liter- 
ally) the cloven hoof ; but he smiled, and 
kept his own counsel. 

Anything that would excite the people 
against Desmond was in his programme, 
and fearfully excited they were. Short 
shrift would he have had if they could 
have captured him there. But what did 
he want with a pile of ox bones? Simply 
this. — He was no mean chemist, and had 
found out for himself that the mode then 
in vogue for making phosphorous was 
complicated, slow, and nasty; and that 
nearly all afforded by materials (which 
shall be nameless) then in use, was to be 
gotten out of bones — but he did not suc- 
ceed. The secret lay hid for a hundred 
and fifty years, and he was only blindly 
groping upon its track, as on that of the 


32 


A FAMILY TREE. 


other great discovery which glimmered 
upon him in the explosion of that unholy 
flacon. 

The black looks and murmurs which 
followed his unexpected appearance in the 
street, after the application of Dame Mar- 
tha’s Holy Water test, half amused, half 
vexed him. How could they be so foolish ! 
His experiment in presence of Master 
Symes showing how the explosion had 
been caused, though successful in one re- 
spect, failed in another. Symes shook his 
head, told him that no demonstration of 
the kind would remove the popular belief 
that he dealt with unholy arts, and prayed 
him, for the Lord’s sake, to get him out of 
the town, and let the excitement blow 
over. 

“ Thou hast made an enemy of Master 
Willford,” he added, “ and lie will leave no 
stone unturned to work thy ruin.” 

Now, Hugh Desmond had already de- 
termined to depart the next morning, so 
he was able to follow this good advice 
without any derangement of his plans. He 
left, with the consequences already de- 
scribed, and soon what he supposed to be 
a more pressing danger banished all 
thoughts of his Manchester persecutors 
from his mind. That pretended beggar, 
with a scar on his face, whom “ Sweet- 
heart” had fed at his gate, and uncon- 
sciously answered in her native tongue — 
troubled him. 

As he was riding back from his la9t visit 
to his wife he had met that very man, 
well-dressed and well-mounted, and he 
had asked his way to Stafford. There 
might be several Italians tall and gaunt, 
and with scars on their faces, going about 
on business in no way connected with 
him ; but a presentiment of evil which he 
could not throw off attached itself to this 
man. 

Again and again he questioned his wife, 
and begged her to recall every detail re- 
specting the object of her charity. Which 
w r ay had he come — which way did he go? 
Had he seen the children ? Ilad he spoken 
to anyone but herself? Had he asked her 
any questions? 

She could not say which way he came. 
When first she saw him he was laying on 


the ground outside the gate. He had 
craved leave to stay there after his meal 
— he was so tired! She thought he did 
not leave till nightfall. Yes, he had asked 
her for her husband. How could he know 
she was married ? How could she tell ! 

“ Am I not old enough and pretty enough 
to be wedded ? ” she said ; “ and hast thou 
come back after so long to talk of nothing 
but a wretched mendicant? Talk to me 
of thy dear self. What hast been doing? 
Where hast thou been ? ” 

He returned her caresses, but answered 
not. The dread that had vaguely haunted 
him since their flight took a fixed form and 
made him shudder in her arms. Suddenly 
he said — 

“ We must leave this place, Maria.” 

“ We ! Ah, that is good,” she cried, look- 
ing up from his breast into his troubled 
face, undisturbed by its gloom. “ We — 
then we shall go together? ” 

“ Yes, dear one, together.” 

The sweet face was nestled again on his 
breast, quite contented. 

“ Thou dost not ask whither? ” he said. 

“What matters whither, so thou be 
there? ” 

“ We will go to London. There is 
safety in a crowd. In that busy city none 
will notice us.” This musing to himself. 
“ When could’st thou be ready for the 
journey?” 

“To-morrow, nay, in two hours if it 
please thee, but ” 

“ Well ? ” 

“ Hast noted that little Hugo is looking 
pale ? Is’t a long journey to London ? ” 

“ For thee, and the little ones — yes.” 

“’Tis nothing. The child has been 
pining for thee. ’Twill pass now thou art 
here.” 

But the father’s kiss was not so potent a 
remedy as Sweetheart hoped. Little Hugh 
was really ill, became worse, and for a time 
his life hung upon a thread. There was 
no going to London for a long time yet. 

One day, when the father had ridden in 
to Stafford for some medicines for his 
child, he was surprised to hear his name 
called after him in the street. He turned, 
and a smart young fellow in riding-dress 
came up much out of breath. 


A FAMILY TREE. 


S3 


u Gramercv, liow yon walk, Master Des- 
mond ! ” he panted. “ Dost thou not re- 
member me? Iam Dick Earle, nephew 
of Martin Earle, the goldsmith, at whose 
house thou lodged last year, in London.” 

“Remember thee! That do I well. 
ITow is it with thy worthy uncle? And 
what doeth thou here? ” 

“ Oh, uncle is hearty, as usual. He often 
speaks of thee, Master Desmond. By the 
way, that reminds me, he heard lately from 
thy friend Signor Bosco, of Venice.” 

“ Ha,” said Hugh, a cloud passing over 
his brow ; “ what of Bosco ? ” 

“He, too, is well and prosperous. His 
ship, the Venus , has arrived at South- 
ampton, with a rich cargo of silks, and 

Here Dick checked himself; his tongue 
loosened, as young tongues will be, by the 
unexpected sight of a pleasant acquaint- 
ance, was running away with him. 

“ And thou art travelling on his business, 
I warrant me,” said Desmond. 

“ Hot exactly,” Dick replied somewhat 
drily. 

They sauntered on towards the hostel 
where Desmond had left his horse, and at 
the door thereof found two steeds saddled 
as for a journey, and a third bearing bag- 
gage, in charge of a groom. Beside one 
of the former, booted and spurred, and 
looking impatient, stood Signor Pietri. 

“ Well, keep thine own counsel,” Des- 
mond replied. “ ’Twas but an idle ques- 
tion.” 

“Hay, nay, Master Desmond, there is 
no secret,” said Dick. “I am but acting 
as guide to this gentleman who speaks not 
English, and has business in the Horth.” 

He indicated Signor Pietri with a wave 
of the hand, and instinctively the two 
raised their hats. They had been both 
abroad, you know, and did not glare at 
each other in proper British form. 

“God speed thee, my boy; a happy 
journey and a safe return,” said Desmond. 
“ And when thou seest thy good uncle, 
fail not to tell him thou didst meet with 
Hugh Desmond, and give him warm greet- 
ing from me.” 

Signor Pietri’s foot was in the stirrup, 
but at the sound of that name he withdrew 

3 


it, and with a flush of pleasure and sur- 
prise whispered a question in Dick’s ear. 

“ The same,” replied the ’prentice ; “ but 
caution — caution ! ” 

“ Fear not,” said the Italian in an under 
one. Then, turning to Hugh, he bowled 
till the plume of his hat swept the ground, 
and thus greeted him in his own language. 

“ Signor Desmond, this is an honor 
wiiich I had hoped for, but little expected. 
I have heard of thee in my own country. 
Bosco of Venice is my friend, and the 
Signorina — Oh, sir! after the holy saints, 
your name is held most sacred by her. It 
w T as she w’ho told me of your noble rescue 
of her father, with smiles and tears of 
gratitude. Hay, I must speak. I know 
you English are unemotional — that you 
love not open praise. Then I will say no 
more of your noble acts. I plead for my- 
self. Give me the happiness, the honor of 
kissing that good, that valiant hand, as thy 
friend.” 

He would have knelt to kiss that hard, 
brown hand, if Hugh had not prevented 
him. With the sound of the name he had 
heard pronounced with so much love, in 
the soft Venetian twilight, by the lips that 
were the sweetest in the world to him, 
came a vision — momentary, but soul-in- 
spiring — of the beautiful grave face of his 
darling. Thus inspired, his warm southern 
nature burst out, and swept away all 
thought of caution. 

Ho such inspiration helped Hugh Des- 
mond to receive this ovation. For him, 
Marcelina Bosco was a shy little girl, 
standing between her father’s knee, and 
fidgetting with the packet of conjiti he had 
given her. That little affair with the 
pirates w T as a drop in the ocean of his ex- 
periences. He had almost forgotten all 
about it. 

“ Was that wisely done, most Illus- 
trious ? ” expostulated Dick as they rode 
away. 

“ Perhaps not,” Signor Pietri replied ; 
“ ’tw r as an impulse. I could not help my- 
self. If thou hadst heard — bah ! you cold- 
blooded islanders cannot understand. Yet 
I did in no wise commit myself, most pru- 
dent sir. I am a friend of his friend, that 
is all.” 


34 


A FAMILY TREE. 


t: He lives in Manchester, and may en- 
counter thee there. ” 

“ Ho matter,” said Cosmo. 

Then Dick was told the story of Bosco’s 
capture by pirates, and his rescue by Hugh 
Desmond, of which the ’prentice had not 
heard. He only knew that Desmond had 
led a wandering, eventful life, and had 
rendered some valuable service to the 
merchant, by whom be had been intro- 
duced (much has Cosmo had been) to 
Martin Earle. The narrator was still 
under the spell, and did full justice to his 
hero. In conclusion he said, “ It is an 
honor to know such a man. That, for his 
birth, or what he may have done before 
that noble action or since, one who could 
act as he did must be a gentleman.” 

“ And capable of understanding gene- 
rous emotions,” Dick observed drily, 
“ though be is a cold-blooded islander.” 

“A fair hit,” laughed Signor Pietri; 
“ thou hast me there.” 

Things having gone so far, Dick narrated 
what had passed between him and his 
uncle, the goldsmith, respecting an intro- 
duction to this same master Desmond. 

“ And why didst stay him?” asked the 
Italian half angrily. 

“ Shall I tell thee the plain truth? ” 

“ Speak candidly.” 

“ Because thou hast been silent — moodily 
silent— on all that pertains to thy object 
in visiting Manchester. Because if it 
pleased thee to know any there, thou 
couldst have asked my uncle for such an 
introduction, and because I would not 
have him offer what might displease thee 
— that is the plain truth.” 

“ All of it?” 

" Well, thou toldest me thou hadst 
friends there, and I said, ‘ Leave him to 
his owu people.’ ” 

Cosmo ground his teeth, and made no 
answer for some time. “ Thou was right,” 
he said at last; “leave me to mine own 

people when I find them, but till then, 

good Dick, let us enjoy ourselves.” And 
on they rode merrily. 

“ We shall be in Manchester to-morrow, 
at this rate,” said Dick; but they were 
not destined to see that town. They were 
crossing a piece of heath as he spoke, 


around which the road curved. A fine 
piece of galloping ground to all appearance, 
but as the words passed his lips, Cosmo’s 
horse put his foot into a rabbit hole, 
stumbled and fell upon its rider, crushing 
him woefully. 

As Desmond passed through the avenue 
of limes which led to his house, night had 
set in, but Maria ran out to meet him 
with that upon her face which made his 
heart give a great leap, and brought the 
cry, “ My God ! the child ? ” to his lips. 

“Is well — is better, I think,” she said; 
“but oh, Hugo! that beggar man! He 
has been here again.” 

“And spoke to thee?” he asked, dis- 
mounting, and throwing his arms around 
her. 

“Ho, not to me — to another — thanks be 
to heaven thou hast come! My head 
ached with watching, I suppose, and little 
Hugo slept, so I came out for the fresh air, 
and sat down yonder by those shrubs 
which hide the garden from the road. I 
was tired and slept — not for long. The 
sound of horses’ hoofs awoke me. At first 
I thought it was thee, and hid to surprise 
thee as thou passed ; but it was the beggar 
man, Hugo, and another, whose face I 
could not see, and they halted within a 
few yards of where I crouched, and spoke 
of thee, my darling. My darling, they 
seek to do thee evil.” 

“ Be composed, sweetheart, be brave ; 
tell me all they said.” 

“ I will try,” she said, dashing away her 
tears. “ He — the beggar — was dressed like 
a serving man; but the other called him 
cousin.” 

“ They spoke Italian ? ” 

“ Of course. I did not catch the first 
words of the one with the scar, but his 
companion replied, ‘ Certes, it is he ! Once 
thou hadst found the nest, ’twas but a 
matter of time to catch the male bird in 
it. The discoveries I made in his labora- 
tory at Manchester were all but conclusive, 
and now that we have tracked him here, 
there is no room for doubt. I have thee 
now, good Master Desmond.’ Oh, my 
Hugo! there was murder in his tone.” 

“ Go on, go on — the rest? ” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


35 


“ Then the beggar, or he that ” 

“ I understand ; go on.” 

“Said, ‘What is to be done? Will you 
act now?’ And the other replied, ‘I 
cannot till I have received an answer from 
Mantua.’ Do you mark me, Hugo? — 
from Mantua!” 

Desmond groaned, and held her tighter 
in his arms. 

“ ‘ In the meantime, the bird may fly,’ 
said the beggar. ‘Hot so,’ replied the 
other; ‘he dare not go back to Manches- 
ter, and has no suspicion that we have 
discovered him. Ho, no; he will stay 
here, and is as much in my power as 
though I had my heel on his throat and 
my dagger at his heart.’ Those were his 
very words.” 

“ Did aught else pass between them ? ” 

“ The beggar said, ‘Well, it is thy busi- 
ness, not mine; if it were, I should make 
sure at once.’ Then the other fell to 
musing, and said, after a pause, ‘ I am half 
sorry that I wrote as I did, though . it 
seemed for the best at the time; but, 
having done so, I must needs bide the 
issue. How long is’t since thou wert here 
the first time?’ ‘ Hearly four months,’ 
-was the reply. ‘ Let us hasten back now 
thou art convinced; for the answer from 
Mantua may come any day now,’ said his 
companion ; and with that they turned 
their horses’ heads and rode away. Oh, 
Hugo, Hugo ! What does it mean ? ” 

He told her — there was no help for it 
now — he told her all he had dreaded, and 
showed how well founded were his fears. 

“ I have brought a curse upon him,” she 
moaned. “Woe is me! I have brought 
a curse upon my love!” 

She besought him to fly, and leave her 
and the children. 

“ They will not hurt us,” she said. 

But he knew better. 

“ We will all away together, Sweetheart,” 
he replied, in as gay a voice as he could 
assume. “ Grant that the answer they 
expect has already arrived, they cannot be 
back here in less than three days; and to- 
morrow, please God, little Hugh will be 
well enough to travel on my knee.” 

“ They will hunt us wherever we go,” 
sobbed his wife. 


“ Hunted creatures will turn at bay,” 
said the old Buccaneer, with a flash in his 
eyes which boded no good to the hunters. 

He had already formed his plan. He 
would remove his dear ones from imme- 
diate danger, and then carry the war into 
the enemies’ country. He would face that 
bloodthirsty pair on their return, and 
quench the last spark of danger in their 
blood. A narrow road, a dark night, a 
sudden shot for the one and equal steel 
with his chief, and Sweetheart might sleep 
in peace. 

In peace, and he away, with no one to 
protect her! More careful consideration 
conjured up a score of possible perils. He 
might miss his foes; they might pass him, 
and track him whilst he was seeking them. 
Was there no one he could rely upon to 
standby her and help him? Yes, there 
was. Stout Gregory Denys — the very 
man ! But how reach Gregory? 

“ Well, there is a way for that,” mused 
Hugh Desmond, “ if gratitude lives deeper 
than in words.” 

He had just then but one servant. The 
old woman who had taken the place of the 
defunct Bertha had left a day or two ago, 
and, for the moment, could not he replaced. 
A youth whom he had picked up, friend- 
less and starving, some years ago, in the 
streets of Smyrna, sufficed. This unfor- 
tunate had run away to sea when almost a 
child ; had joined in a sailor’s frolic in that 
distant port, got lost, missed his ship, and 
was left to the tender mercies of the Turks. 
Small store of education had he, but a 
power of mother wit. He had a vague 
idea that there was some sort of a God in 
heaven, though he put his trust chiefly in 
one he had made for himself on earth— 
Hugh Desmond. He was now sixteen 
years of age, a slip of a boy, but hardy as 
a young oak-tree, and faithful as a dog. 

When Sweetheart had retired to rest, 
her lord descended to the outer regions, 
and woke this boy. 

“ Art awake, Tom ? ” 

“ Aye, master.” 

“ Canst ride to Manchester, my lad ? ” 

“ Aye, master.” 

“Canst be discreet; do what tkou’rt 
told, and hold thy tongue ? ” 


36 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“ I’ll do thy will, and say naught,” Tom 
replied. 

The word “discreet” bothered him. 
He was not sure if he could do that. 

“ Dost know the road ? ” 

“ I’ll find it somehow.” 

“ Ask thy way as little as thou canst 
help, and ride as fast as my horse will car- 
ry thee. Start at daybreak; seek out 
Gregory Denys at my house (thou know- 
est where), give him this ring for a token, 
and bid him take horse and follow thee.” 

“ Back here, master? ” 

“ No. To the old mill at Morton-of-the- 
King, where we stayed awhile on our way 
here.” 

“ Where you shot the mallards, mas- 
ter? ” 

“ Right. But pass not this way. Go 
by the ford at the Ilallowfield. The mo- 
ney thou wilt want is in this belt; strap 
it round thee, and put my smaller pistols 
in thy holsters — they are loaded. And, 
mark me, Tom, if thou shouldst see two 
foreigners on the road— one a tall, dark 
man, with a scar on his cheek — keep out 
of their view, and pass them, if possible; 
but if thou shouldst meet them at a halt- 
ing-place, and their horses should go lame, 
or get loose, or anything else happen by 
accident — dost mark me, Tom, by acci- 
dent? — to hinder them on their journey 
without delaying thee — why, I do not 
think that any honest man would be 
sorry.” 

No magpie gloating over a stolen six- 
pence could look more cunning than did 
Tom ; but he only answered, “ Aye, mas- 
ter,” as usual. 

The first faint streaks of dawn had 
hardly appeared, when the clatter of hoofs 
told Desmond that his messenger was on 
his way. He had not closed his eyes that 
night, and still laid awake to think. Those 
unwelcome visitors had left about four 
o’clock on the previous day, and their 
horses — so Sweetheart told him, in reply 
to further questions — appeared tired. A 
small village about ten miles on, but rather 
out of their way, would probably be their 
halting-place. Even if they started again 


the same time with Tom, the fine horse he 
rode, lightly weighted, would pick up their 
jaded steeds. Tom would beat them full 
six hours into Manchester, though no 
“accident” happened, and would he back 
with the stout young smith in time. 

A movement of the sick child disturbed 
his reverie. 

“ Art in pain, my boy ? ” 

“ No, papa; only thirsty.” 

He took his little hand ; it was cool and 
moist. 

“Thank God!” he said fervently, as, 
having sipped the drink prepared for him, 
little Hugh turned upon his pillow, and 
lapsed again into a healthy sleep. 

Then the whilom Buccaneer, who oft 
had scoffed at priests and churches, fell on 
his knees and prayed. No well-worn for- 
mula of supplication — nothing but the cry 
of his heart for help and strength to pro- 
tect these helpless dear ones. 

***** 

Away sped Tom Stevens, pleased with 
himself, and proud of his mission, till he 
came to a heath, round which the road 
wound. There was a track across it, by 
following 'which he could save half a mile, 
so he took it. 

“ HoV.oa! ” he said to himself as he was 
about half over, “ there’s been a scuffle 
here.” And indeed the ground cut up by 
marks of horses’ hoofs and riders’ boots 
bore out his idea. 

He passed on, and regained the road, 
but it forked into three, and he did not 
know which to take. Well, there was a 
hovel hard by where some one lived, and 
w r as getting his breakfast, to judge by the 
smoke which curled out of the half-opened 
door. He would ask. He rode up, knock- 
ed loudly with his whip, and shouted with 
the air born of his good mount, the gold 
in his belt, and pistols in his holsters — 

“Ho! within there; which of these 
roads is right for Manchester? ” 

“ Manchester ! ” repeated a voice. “ Who 
rides to Manchester?” and a young man 
clad in a smart dress came quickly out of 
that wretched-looking abode, and laid his 
hand on Tom's bridle. 


A FAMILY TREE. 


87 


CHAPTER YIII. 

ON THE ROAI). 

Startled by so unexpected an appari- 
tion, Tom reined back his horse, and drew 
a pistol. 

“Put up thy weapon, thou popinjay! 
I jnean thee no harm. Dost take me for 
a cut-purse? There. A noble beast, by 
my life! Put up thy weapon. See, I 
bear no arms. I am a peaceful traveller 
like thyself, and will direct thee on thy 
way with truth and courtesy an’ thou wilt 
let me. Thou art for Manchester? ” 

“What is that to thee? ” 

“ Fair words, good youth. Having ask- 
ed the way, ’tis useless to deny that that 
is thy destination.” 

“ And what if it be? ” 

“Much. There has been a sad mishap 
near this. My companion’s horse fell and 
rolled upon him. He is hurt grievously. 
If thou doubtest me. come in and see for 
thyself. He, too, is bound for Manches- 
ter, where he has friends, and would fain 
communicate to them his state, and have 
some leech sent to tend his hurts. Wait 
but ten minutes whilst I write a letter, 
take it for me, and thou wilt not only do 
a good deed, but shall be rewarded liber- 
ally.” 

Tom wavered. Ten minutes was not 
much to wait, and he was a kind-hearted 
lad. 

“ Who art thou? ” he asked. 

“ My name is Richard Earle, of London ; 
my friend is a foreign gentleman, Signor 
Pietri.” 

Tom pricked up his ears. A foreigner! 
His master had spoken of two journeying 
together, but this might be one of them. 
It would be worth his while to see if the 
disabled man had a scar on his face, and if 
so, to be able to report that the wished-for 
accident had happened. More. If it were 
truly he, that letter for his friends in Man- 
chester might be consigned to the nearest 
pond, or, better still, carried to Hugh Des- 
mond, and so a further delay ensured. Tom 
had his wits about him, you see. 

So he went in, and whilst our friend 
Dick was writing under difficulties which 
somewhat marred the effect of his penman- 


ship, took careful stock of his companion 
who lay groaning on a heap of straw. No. 
He was not particularly tall, his complexion 
was fair, and his cheek unscarred. 

Honest Tom felt quite sorry for him, 
and the thought of directing them to his 
master’s house for help came more than 
once into his mind. He looked around for 
the owner of the hovel, and there he was 
in the corner munching a crust of rye 
bread, and stirring a pot, whose steam 
suggested the presence of rabbits (not un- 
connected with onions) in a satisfactory 
manner to anyone who — like Tom — had 
had more riding than breakfast that morn- 
ing. He thought he had seen that man 
before, when and where he could not re- 
member. He spoke to him, but was no 
way the wiser for his questions. The fel- 
low was either sulky or stupid. Tom 
could make nothing out of him — except a 
breakfast. He had to breakfast some- 
where. 

Nor had ’prentice Dick — sharp as he 
was — been more successful with his host, 
who was really not sulky, but densely, ira- 
pregnably stupid. Was there any town 
nearer than Stafford? He did not know. 
Any country houses about? He did not 
know. Did he know of any leech? The 
faintest gleam of intelligence flicked for a 
moment on his usually vacant face, and 
disappeared as he shook his head. How 
long had he lived there? He could not 
say — since he was a boy. And never went 
abroad ! Never. 

“ What a life ! ” thought Dick. “ Enough 
to make an idiot of anyone.” 

It was the life led by many in those 
“good old days.” The father of this 
hoveller had “ squatted ” on the heath and 
lived (or starved) by selling turf, and osiers 
for basket-making in Stafford. Sometimes 
there was a rabbit or two hid away in 
these consignments unknown to the lord 
of the manor. The son was content to 
follow in his sire’s steps. He could not 
have told for his life what king reigned in 
England, or what day of the week it was. 
Would he go into Stafford and fetch a 
doctor? No. He could not walk so far. 
He was all to pieces with the “ shakes.” 
How, then, did he send his goods to mar- 


38 


A FAMILY TREE. 


ket? On the donkey. Where was the 
donkey ? Gone there. Where was “ there ?” 
Why, to Stafford, to be sure. What, alone ! 
No, the wife was with him. 

This was the first mention of his help- 
mate, and Dick took heart. Much was 
not to be expected of a woman who could 
link herself to such a life, but there was 
comfort in the reflection that she could 
not possibly be more dense than her lord. 

Sharp as he was, Dick’s mind could not 
apply itself to two things at a time. So 
intent was he upon writing that letter for 
Signor Pietri, and getting Tom Stevens to 
take it, that he forgot to ask the latter 
any of the questions he had put in vain to 
the hoveller, and thought lie had done 
very well when he saw Tom ride away 
with the missive in his belt. He w r as 
barely out of sight when the donkey — 
bestridden male fashion by a pleasant- 
iooking woman — trotted up to the door. 

* * * * * 

The road was good, and the weather 
cloudy, so Tom galloped along and nothing 
happened worthy of particular mention (as 
run the Marine protests) until evening, 
when the rain which had been threatening 
all day, came dow r n as though it too had 
to make up for lost time, and he rode his 
last eight miles through a first-class thun- 
der-storm. He had followed his orders, 
and his good chestnut w r as not sorry to 
see houses and lights, and to hear sounds 
suggestive of corn and a stable. He gave 
a little satisfied winney, as horses will do 
under the circumstances, and pricked up 
his ears. 

“Dost think thou’rt going to see thy 
master old fellow?” said Tom, who was 
In the habit of conversing with his charge; 
“ never fear.” 

This w r as intended as an assurance that 
one of his master’s sayings, “ the first duty 
of a good traveller is to his beast,” w r as not 
forgotten. As soon as Hugh Desmond had 
kissed wife and children, on his return to 
home, he would follow Hafid to his stall, 
see him rubbed dowm, and feed him with 
his own hand. Tom had no sweetheart 
to kiss, so he led his tired steed straight 
through the hostel yard to where the in- 
stinct of his class judged the stable w r ould 


be. There he saw two horses w>et, muddy, 
jaded, and supperless — who turned their 
heads and w r atched him with wistful eyes, 
poor beasts ! as he passed. 

“ If my master was thine, I wouldn’t be 
the varlet who leaves thee thus,” thought 
Tom. 

Then he unsaddled Hafid, washed his 
legs and mouth, rubbed him dry, fastened 
him up by the side of his less fortunate 
brethren, and w’ent off in search of Will 
Ostler and corn. 

“ Art not ashamed to treat good dumb 
cattle thus?” expostulated Desmond’s dis- 
ciple, when he had found that functionary, 
and returned with him to the stable. 

“I had no orders,” replied the ostler 
gruffly. 

“ To the devil with ‘orders!’ Hast no 
sense? I warrant me thou waitest for no 
orders to get thine own supper.” 

“ What is’t to thee ! Art their servant ?” 

“ Whose?” 

“ Why, the two foreigners who came in 
lately.” 

“ Ho, ho, so two foreigners came in 
lately, did they ? ” 

The ostler nodded. 

“ And these are their horses, eh?” 

He nodded again. 

“Weil, it’s no affair of mine; I’m not 
their man. Where is the corn ?” 

“ Hie thee, and dry thy clothes, I’ll feed 
the horse,” said the man. 

“Not so. Give me the corn, if thou 
would’st not be worried like a rat by a 
dog.” 

“ Oh ! he bites, does he ? ” 

“ Aw’ful !” replied the unveracious Tom. 
“ There’s a poor young man down in Staf- 
fordshire — but he was too venturesome, 
and no one was near to warn him.” 

“ Take thy corn,” said the ostler quick- 
ly, “and tend thy wdld beast thyself. I 
mistrusted his eye from the first.” 

Now Hafid, like all of his blood, had a 
remarkably kind and soft eye. Having 
settled him for the night, Tom returned 
to the hostel, ordered supper, and pro- 
ceeded to dry himself (for he had no 
change) before a huge log fire, wdiich w'as 
blazing in the guest’s room. He w'as not 
the only one so engaged. The masters of 


A FAMILY TREE. 


39 


those two horses stood there steaming 
away, and occasionally cursing somebody 
or something in a tongue unknown to 
Tom. There was no mistake now. They 
were undoubtedly the pair to whom an 
accident might happen without causing 
sorrow to any honest man. Tom thought 
of the neglected steeds, and wished he had 
not befriended them. 

“ A foul night!” said the elder of the 
two (not he with the scarred face), as he 
made way for Tom at the fire. “ Thou 
also wert caught in the storm it would 
seem. Hast ridden far ? ” 

“ No, not very,” Tom replied carelessly, 
tugging the while at a boot which stuck 
like a sucker, and in fact was one, till he 
had stamped the water out of it. 

“ Art journeying north or south ? ” 

“ Neither,” said Tom. 

“ Pardon my questions. The varlet with 
our sumpter horse has missed us, and we 
are sorely put to it for a change of rai- 
ment. I thought that perchance thou 
mightest have seen him on thy road.” 

“ I passed him not,” Tom replied, after 
a moment’s consideration as to whether it 
would not be well to send them out on 
some wild goose chase after the missing 
domestic, “but the night is black as a 
wolfs mouth,” he added, “ and the rain 
blinding. Peradventure, he has lost his 
way.” 

“ Very like. ’Tis an addle-pated knave.” 

By this time Tom had got his boots off, 
and his doublet, and was engaged drying 
the former by pouring hot ashes into them, 
and shaking them about. 

The foreigners made a remark, in which 
Tom caught something like the word “ in- 
genious.” 

“ Call it what you please,” he said; " but 
do you think to put on yours again, you 
will do the like. Oil lord, the letter!” 
with which exclamation he sprung at his 
doublet, which lay on the floor, exuding 
several small rills, and drew forth that 
missive in a decidedly pulpy condition. 

Dick Earle had been short of paper. It 
was only half a sheet folded, and it opened 
of itself as Tom placed it — address upper- 
most, as luck would have it — to dry on 
the hearth. This was an operation which 


required some care and time; and he did 
not perceive that the tall man with the scar 
on his cheek was stooping over him the 
while. When the paper was dry, and he 
had refolded it, he saw that his fellow guests 
had retired to the other end of the room, 
and were deep in conversation. Well, they 
were dry by this time, and the fire was 
perhaps oppressively hot. Tom himself 
was glad to move away when the welcome 
word supper was pronounced. Alas! it 
was not his supper, he was told. First 
come, first serve, was the rule of that 
house. The drawer was not sure that 
they could get two suppers; whereupon, 
the elder of the travellers laughed at Tom’s 
look of dismay, and courteously invited 
him to join them at their repast. 

They were very hospitable— particularly 
with the wine, which the tall man pressed 
on Tom with many words and gestures of 
good-will; but Tom would none of it. 

“ Draw me a stoup of ale,” he said, and 
threw 7 down his broad piece like a prince. 

“ Thou hast a long ride yet before thee 
to Manchester,” observed the spokesman. 

“ Anon ! ” said Tom. 

“ And it is ill- weather for thy journey.” 

“ The rain is all but over now.” 

“ Frankly, thou bearest a letter for Sig- 
nor Porras. 

“ Frankly; thou art a knave to know it,” 
cried Tom, starting up. 

“ Tut, tut ! I saw but the superscrip- 
tion, and no one had a better right to read 
it, for I am the person to whom it is ad- 
dressed.” 

“ Thou art of a truth, Signor Yincenti 
Porras ? ” 

“ In good sooth I am. This gentleman 
will tell thee so.” 

The other nodded, and said, “ yaes, 
yaes.” 

“ Hum ! And thy name is ? ” 

“ Marco.” 

“ There ! Thou seest thou canst finish 
thy errand here.” 

“ By delivering thee this letter? ” 

“ Precisely.” 

“Vastly good!” said Tom, reseating 
himself, and making a second onslaught 
upon the pastry. “Vastly good! Now 
listen, worthy Signor Vincenti Porras, and 


40 


A FAMILY TREE. 


thon, worshipful Master Marco Something 
— quit thy scowling, for ’twill naught avail. 
When the gentleman who wrote this letter 
gave it into my hands, he read to me the 
superscription — as thou callest it — and if I 
recollect aright, it was for Signor Vincenti 
Porras, at the Golden Boar, in Deans- 
gate.” 

“ That is precisely where I lodge.” 

“ Then when I see thee at the Golden 
Boar in Deansgate, thou slialt have thy 
letter, but not an hour before,” and he 
raised his stoup of ale to his lips, and saw 
the bottom of it before he put it down. 

The tall man muttered something which, 
to judge by the expression of his eyes, 
was not favorable to Tom ; but the other 
laid his hand upon his sleeve and checked 
him. 

“ Thou art a trusty youth,” he said 
warmly. “ I like thee the better for thy 
refusal. We will ride on together in the 
morning, and thou shalt not relinquish 
thy charge till thou art certain that it falls 
into the right hands. Mayhap it doth not 
press.” 

“ Don’t it!” thought Tom ; and then an 
idea flashed into his head. 

“ But thou mayest at least tell me who 
sent thee? ” insinuated Signor Porras. 

“ Richard Earle, of London.” 

“ I know him not.” 

“ Mayhap. He wrote not for himself, 
but his companion, a young gentleman 
of Italy, who had met with a sore mis- 
chance.” 

“Ha! How so?” 

“ His horse fell, and rolled over him. 
They were on their way to Manchester, 
and sent me on to thee — if, indeed, thou 
art this Signor Porras — for help.” 

The two foreigners exchanged rapid 
glances. Marco, who did not understand 
a word of what was passing, seemed im- 
patient. 

“ I will tell thee all presently,” the other 
whispered in Italian. “ Leave him to me.” 

“ Poor gentleman ! A countryman, I 
dare say, who had heard of me. Canst 
describe him ? ” 

“A fair man, with large grey eyes; well- 
favored, too, when well, I’ll be sworn, but 
fearsomely pale when I saw him.” 


“ Did this — I forget me his name — he 
who wrote, call him by his name?” 

“ Well, yes, he did.” 

“ What was it?” 

“I cannot rightly say; they spoke It- 
alian, I suppose. Something like Illust — 
lllustriss. I know not. 

“ Illustrissimo? ” 

“ That was it. Illustrissimo.” 

“ Now, bethink thee, good youth, were 
it not a charity to give me that letter, so 
that I may go at once to the aid of the 
poor gentleman ? ” 

“No,” said Tom, stoutly, “I have told 
thee enough, an thou art really the man 
he seeks, to send thee to his side. If after 
this thou goest not, ’tis proof thon art not 
Signor Vincenti Porras, and that I must 
seek him in Manchester. If I give him 
the letter, mused cunning Tom, “ he might 
mistrust it and me.” 

“Wilt guide us back to where he is?” 
Porras asked, after a pause. 

“ An you will.” 

“ Good; we will start at daybreak.” 

“ Softly, softly, good signor. I did not 
tell thee that my only business was to de- 
liver that letter; but if thou wilt wait here 
till my return ” 

Porras interrupted him with a gesture 
of impatience. 

“ Where did you leave these travellers ? ” 
he asked. 

Tom told him, and was very particular 
in indicating the road. Then he went out 
again to the stable, to see if “ Hafid ” were 
all right, and get to his holsters. 

“ I tell thee, cousin,” said Marco, w r hen 
they were alone, and Tom’s story had been 
translated, “ I would have had that letter, 
though it cost him a stab. Leave him to 
me.” 

“ Of what avail is the paper when we 
know its contents? ” 

“ There may be more than he says ; 
there may be some trick.” 

“No,” said the other, after a pause; 
“ the boy is honest. There is no trick. 
If there were, he would have given me the 
letter.” 

“ It may not be our kinsman who is 
hurt, after all.” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


41 


“ Bah ! Who else can it be ? Who else 
coming from abroad knows me as Vincenti 
Porras? The guide, or whatever the man 
who writes may be, called him * Illustris- 
simo,’ which yon simpleton took to be 
his name. ’Tis Cosmo de Ribolini — none 
other.” 

“ Then the end is nearer than we 
thought.” 

“ Much nearer.” 

He of the addle pate arrived with the 
baggage soon after midnight, and Tom, 
who was sleeping with one eye open, 
heard the orders he received. He was to 
hire fresh horses to go back in the morn- 
ing and find a doctor to bear his masters 
company. 

“ That settles it,” said Tom to himself ; 
and taking a long nail, which he had 
sharpened, from his pocket, he threw it 
out of the window. “ A good twelve hours 
lost, and no harm done to any dumb 
beast.” 

Poor, faithful Tom! He little thought 
that what he had done might gain them 
two days. 

». — ... 

CHAPTER IX. 

BOW TOM STEVENS LIED FOR HIS MAS- 
TER. 

Tom Stevens had only once accom- 
panied his master to Manchester, and con- 
sequently knew not exactly the way to 
his house. Hafid w as wiser, and took him 
thither straight. 

“ Mother of mercies ! ” cried Dame Mar- 
tha, as she saw them enter the yard. 
“Another!” and on his own horse too!” 

Then she volunteered the information 
that Master Desmond was not in town. 
She could not say where he had gone, or 
when he would return. It was no use 
asking any questions; she knew nothing. 

All this very volubly, in a half-frighten- 
ed, half-defiant tone, and without the least 
provocation from Tom. 

“ Who asked for Master Desmond ? ” he 
said, as he dismounted. “ An’ he hath 
gone to the devil, and means to stay, it is 
no business of mine, I seek one Gregory 
Denys.” 


“My son!” moaned the good dame, 
crossing herself. “ Oh, what hath he 
done ? ” 

“ Nay, I am not his godfather,” replied 
pert Tom Stevens, loosing Hafid’s girths. 
“ I pray thee send him hither, if he be in 
the house.” 

The doors of the old brew-house opened 
as he spoke, and Gregory himself appeared, 
hammer in hand as usual. His employer 
had left him some heavy work to finish, 
and he was busy. 

“ Who asks for me?” 

“ I do — if thou art Gregory Denys.” 

“ I know thee not,” said the smith. 
Since that affair of the purse, he had 
grown suspicious of strangers. 

“Hist!” Tom whispered, lowering his 
head, and putting “ Hafid” between them 
and Dame Martha, who stood on the steps 
leading into the house, in an agony of sus- 
pense. “ Hist! ” come nearer. Dost know 
this horse ? ” 

“ ’Tis my master’s.” 

“ And this ring? ” 

“ His also.” 

“ Come with me to the stable, and I will 
show thee more. Why, man,” he cried 
aloud, “ must this good nag have no corn 
after his journey, or shall I take him to an 
inn ? ” 

“ Follow me,” said the smith. “ Get 
thee in, mother, I will join thee anon. 
Now,” turning upon Tom, as soon as the 
stable-door had closed behind them, “ thy 
will with me.” 

But Tom, true to his teaching, rubbed 
down “ Hafid ” and fed him before he 
would say a word. This done — he sat 
him down upon the corn bin, and began. 

“ Thou hast recognised thy master’s ring. 
Good ! It was his token for thee to obey 
his orders by my mouth.” 

“ And they are ? ” 

“ To take horse and follow me.” 

“ But ” 

“ But me no buts. Master Desmond is 
in some strait. Nay, I know not what; 
I did but guess by his face that there is 
something amiss. Mayhap I am wrong to 
say as much, but he is my master as well 
as thine, and I love him.” 

“ I would lay down my life to serve him.” 


42 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“Good again. Then get thee a horse, 
and prepare to follow me, as soon as 
1 Hafid ’ has rested.” 

“ Whither, boy, whither? I must ” 

“ Hadst thou as much trust in him an 
he has in thee, thou wouldst not ask 
‘ whither.’ ‘ Get thee to Manchester , see 
Gregory Denys , give him this ring , and bid 
him take horse and follow thee . 1 Those 
were his words. An’ thou hadst come 
with such to me, I would have asked no 
whither .” 

“ Master Desmond has enemies,” mused 
the half-convinced smith. 

“ The more reason that his friends 
should be true.” 

“ I know my duty, and will not be taught 
by thee, thou jackanapes!” 

“ Then do it,” said Tom, “ and no more 
words about it.” 

“ Let me see that ring again.” 

“ Take it and the money, too. Thou art 
the elder, and ’tis meet thou shouldst bear 
the purse. Good Master Gregory, forgive 
me if I have said ought to offend thee, but 
do thy duty, and,” he added more seriously, 
“hold thy tongue, as he bade me do.” 

“ What can I say, except that I am going 
to my master.” 

“ Thou must not say even so much.” 

“ If I follow thee, who comest from him, 
the folk will know.” 

“Leave that to me. Knowest thou the 
Golden Bear, in Deansgate? ” 

“ Aye.” 

“ Then lead me there.” 

“ What is thy name? ” 

“ Tom Stevens.” 

“ How long hast served my master!” 

“ Nine years.” 

“ Then give me thy hand, Tom Stevens. 
Thou art a smart youth, and must be 
loyal.” 

They went together to the Golden Boar, 
and mine host’s first words as Tom asked 
for Signor Forras, were almost an echo of 
Dame Martha’s greeting, — 

“What! Another. Gramercy! this Sig- 
nor must be a great man to have two mes- 
sengers after him in one day. Art also 
from London ? ” 

“Anon!” said Tom, looking as stupid 
as he could. 


“ He was at our house an hour ago, with 
a letter for Master Desmond,” Gregory 
whispered. 

“ In God’s name, who? ” 

“ Why, the other messenger to be sure.” 

“ Oh, there is another messenger ! Came 
he through Macclesfield? ” asked Tom: 

“ Here he is, to answer for himself,” 
said Gregory; “dost know him?” 

“ No. Give you good day, fair gentle- 
man,” said Tom, bowing politely to the 
person indicated. “ Thou also it would 
seem, have business with Signor Porras?” 

We have met that other messenger be- 
fore. It was no other than John Eastman 
who joined them in the porch, sent by 
mine host to see his fellow courier. 

The despatch which missed Cosmo de 
Ribolini by a few hours at Naples, missed 
Signor Pietri by four days in London. It 
was sent under cover to Martin Earle, with 
the request that he would deliver or for- 
ward it at once, as it was of the last im- 
portance. Cosmo had been markedly 
reticent about his business in Manchester, 
and so the goldsmith did not know where 
to send the packet: “ But,” reasoned he, 
“John can find Dick — I warrant me 
ruffling Dick will make himself known — 
and he found, the rest is easy.” 

So the epistle — sealed with the Ribolini 
seal, and directed to the new head of the 
family with all his titles — was again put 
under cover, addressed to plain Signor 
Pietri, and, accompanied with a note to 
Hugh Desmond, begging him to aid in the 
search, was given to John Eastman with 
orders to ride haste, post haste, to Lanca- 
shire. And so he did. 

Now, Signor Pietri had been as good as 
his word, when he told Dick that he would 
not hurry, and that they would have a 
pleasant journey. The more the young 
noble thought about his mission the less 
he liked it. He was fain to put off the 
meeting with his grim kinsman as long as 
possible. He had a sort of vague hope 
something might occur to render his inter- 
position unnecessary. De La Torre might 
become impatient, and act alone. He 
would give him every chance. So he went 
out of his way to see Oxford, and wasted 
two days at Warwick. Dick was delighted 


A FAMILY TREE. 


with such rambling, and you may be sure 
no remonstrance at the delay came from 
him. So John Eastman— riding straight 
and fast, would have all but overtaken 
them, even if that accident had not hap- 
pened. 

He went first to Desmond’s house, as 
instructed, for the expected assistance. 
Hence Dame Martha’s exclamation. Then 
he rode hither and thither, asking for 
Dick, who was not known, and next for 
Signor Pietri, and was told at last that 
there were two foreigners staying at the 
Golden Boar, one of whom was called 
Porras, not Pietri; but it might be the 
same— these folk had so many names. If 
it were not, still he would surely know 
where the other could be found. Then, 
as now, it was a maxim with the British 
mind, that all foreigners must be ac- 
quainted with each other. Away went 
John to the Golden Boar, and asked for 
Signor Porras. Hence the comment of 
mine host upon the importance of that 
visitor, when Tom Stevens made the same 
demand an hour later. 

Very little passed in the town of any 
import which did not reach the ear of 
Master Willford, the witch-finder, and so 
long before sundown he learned that two 
horsemen had arrived, each with messages 
for Hugh Desmond and Signor Porras — at 
least, both of them had called at Desmond’s 
house. 

. We left Tom Stevens politely applying 
the pump to the first arrived courier, with 
his “Thou, also, it seems, have business 
with Signor Porras? ” 

“ Simply to find another person,” John 
replied. 

“ His companion? ” suggested Tom. 

“ I know not if he be his companion or 
no. He I seek is named Pietri, an Italian, 
fair and haughty in his way, whose guide 
is my fellow-prentice.” 

“ From London? ” Tom asked, quickly. 

“ Aye, from London.” 

“ Why, of course,” said Tom, after a 
little consideration. 

u Richard Earle?” 

“ Thou hast seen him. He is here,” 
cried John, flushing with pleasure. “ Lead 
me to him.” 


48 

“ That were not easy,” Tom laughed. 
“ He is many a good league away.” 

“But on his road hither?” 

“ Oh, dear, no,” said unblushing Tom. 
“ Let me get my dinner, and I will tell thee 
all about him, and thy Signor Porras too.” 

Gregory plucked his sleeve. “Anon, 
anon,” he said, impatiently shaking him- 
self free. “ If thou canst talk on an empty 
stomach, that cannot I. The gentleman 
will wait till I have refreshed myself; wilt 
not, fair sir? ” 

But John Eastman had turned aside 
cursing his ill luck. Many a good league 
away, and not coming to Manchester! 
John had had quite enough of the saddle 
already. 

“ Take me to some place where we can 
talk apart,” Tom whispered Denys as they 
passed into the street again, having ascer- 
tained that dinner would be served in half 
an hour. “ I would keep out of yon fel- 
low’s way until I have made up my plans 
about him.” 

“ Leave him alone — what is he to thee ? ” 
was the smith’s gruff reply. “ Is this hold- 
ing thy tongue as our master bade thee ? ” 

“ Thou shalt judge anon,” said Tom. 

They walked down to the river — it was 
a bright stream then, with banks lined 
with rushes, and spangled with the blue 
forget-me-not. Passing the Castle Field, 
where the Medlock and Tweed join their 
waters, they were soon out of the reach of 
interruption, and Tom narrated how Hugh 
Desmond had spoken of those foreigners, 
one of whom had turned out to be Signor 
Porras, and what had passed to detain 
them. 

“ And now,” quoth Tom, “ we must get 
that packet for Signor Pietri, who is mixed 
up with them for a surety in some way, 
else they had not gone back to assist him.” 

“ If they be our master’s foes, how comes 
it that their messenger came to him for 
help?” 

“ That is what disturbs me. That is 
why I say I must get that packet. If it 
bode our master good, ’tis well he should 
have it quickly, and I may not say where 
he has gone. If it bode him ill, ’tis well 
all the same that its purport should be 
known to him. Can’st read?” 


44 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“ Not I.” 

“ Nor I,” and the pair laughed. 

“Thou hast a head, Master Tom,” said 
the smith, gazing with admiration into the 
stripling’s excited face. 

“ And thou a mighty arm, Master Denys. 
But I would that one of us could read. 
Dost think he can ? ” 

“ The fellow yonder?” jerking his thumb 
over his shoulder. 

Tom nodded an affirmative. 

“ God knows. He is from London,” 
said the smith. 

“ Can all Londoners read? ” 

44 Mayhap.” 

“ I’ll try him, anyway,” mused Tom. 

“ But the packet is sealed — I saw it. He 
would not dare open it, unless ” 

“ I am not thinking of the packet,” said 
Tom. 44 Methinks I see a way. Hark 
ye, Gregory: get thee a horse, and join 
me in two hours at the hotel with ‘ Hafid.’ 
Stand to whatever I say. I’ll have that 
packet.” 

Tom dined, and did full justice to the 
cheer set before him. John Eastman had 
become anxious to learn more about Dick, 
and when they were alone came back to 
the subject. 

“ Well,” said Tom, crossing his legs and 
looking mighty wise, 44 there is a good deal 
of mystery about this Signor Pietri into 
which it were not good for us to pry too 
closely, Master — Master ” 

“ Eastman is my name.” 

“ I had forgotten for the moment. We 
riders, good Master Eastman, have to do 
what we are bid, and ask no questions.” 

John did not quite like being taken for 
a rider, but he let it pass. 

“ I have a letter for thee.” 

“ Ha! give it, then.” 

44 Canst read ? ” 

“Aye; where is the letter?” 

Tom, expecting a contrary answer, had 
already put his hand in his pocket and 
half drawn forth that damaged epistle 
which was to be delivered to Signor Porras 
at the Golden Boar. It was too late to 
retract now, so he handed it. 

“ ’Tis Dick’s own writing ! ” exclaimed 
the ‘ ’prentice,’ 44 but in Italian. How’ 
comes that? ” 


Tom was relieved. “ How should I 
know ? ” he said. 

“ Master rider,” rejoined the other, 
severely. 44 I know not what is said here- 
in, but the character is in English, and it 
is addressed to Signor Torras. Thau didst 
say just now’ that it was for me.” 

“Tut! it is for th.ee, though it bear not 
thy name. Listen. It is writ, as thou 
knowest, by thy friend, Richard Earle, 
who is travelling with this Signor Pietri. 
Dost admit that? ” 

“ I do.” 

44 Well, so far. This Signor Pietri has 
business with Signor Porras, and was 
journeying hither to join,. him.” 

“ That may be so.” 

“ It is so. Signor Pietri hurt his hand 
at — at— on the way, and I w r as sent on to 
call his friends to him where he was. I 
overtook him, and discharged my mission/ 

“ How then hast the letter? ” 

44 Patience,” said Tom, with a depreca- 
ting smile. “ Thou shalt be satisfied. 
What didst learn here respecting Signor 
Porras ? ” 

“ That he had ridden south, and would 
return in a w'eek, or less.” 

“ To wait for Signor Pietri ? ” 

“ I suppose so.” 

“ Then having already met him, he will 
not return.” 

“ How know you that?” 

“ Because he told me,” replied Tom, with 
well-feigned impatience. “ I left him going 
where his friend was, and he said, ‘Hie 
thee on to Manchester all the same, and if 
there be any packet at my lodgings for me 
or Signor Pietri, bring it back.’ Said I, 
4 Give me some warrant, for they will not 
credit a simple lad such as I am.’ ‘ There 
is no time to write,’ said he , 4 but take this 
ring — stay, better still, take this letter 
thou has brought me; it will explain why 
I turn back, and be thy warrant. But be 
careful. Bring on the packet thyself , for 
— well, I may not tell thee what else he 
said. I told you just now there are mys- 
teries about this Signor,” said the accom- 
plished young liar, lowering his voice into 
a whisper. 

44 It might be another Popish plot,” 
mused the other. 


A FAMILY TREE. 


44 It might, indeed ; in good sooth, it 
might ! ” 

44 In which an honest man would risk 
his head before he knew where he really 
was.” 

“ That’s the danger,” Tom rejoined, de- 
cisively. 

44 And Dick is wdth them. Poor, dear, 
trusting Dick! By heaven!” cried John 
Eastman, bringing his fist down upon the 
table with a crash, 44 I will go and warn 
Dick!” 

Now this was by no means what Tom 
W’as leading up to. He wanted to frighten 
Dick's friend out of the packet, and was 
considerably taken aback by this outburst 
of affection ; but as his auditor got up and 
began to pace the room in his excitement, 
he had time to think. He thrust his hands 
into his pockets, stretched out his legs, and 
observed, in a careless tone— 

44 Oh, he is safe.” 

“ Safe! How can he be safe in the com- 
pany of those whom thou hast admitted 
may be traitors ? ” 

44 Who said he was in their company ? ” 

44 Why, thou thyself.” 

“ Pshaw ! Is this Dick of thine a fool ?” 

44 I will break the pate of any that say 
so,” cried John, striding up to him. 

“ Then break iftt mine,” laughed Tom. 
44 I hold him to be a wise man for quitting 
them as he did.” 

44 He has quitted them ? ” cried the other, 
aghast. 

“ Good Master Eastman,” said our ro- 
mancer, 44 did I not tell thee that Signor 
Pietri had sent me for his friends, and that 
those friends had gone to him? ” 

44 Thou didst, hut ” 

44 Well, they had then no need of thy 
Dick, or he of them. Ah ! it is a fine 
thing to be independent,” Tom sighed. 

44 1 marvel that so spirited a blade put up 
with such services as long as he did.” 

44 Gone back to London ! ” mused John 
Eastman. 

44 Not to play the lacquey again, I’ll war- 
rant,” said Tom. 

44 He never played the lacquey,” cried 
the other, indignantly. 

“As you will. All I can say is, that 
when I saw them together, this fine Signor 


45 

did not do a thing for himself; it was 
4 bring me this,’ and 4 do that.’ ” 

All of which was, for once, the truth. 
The poor gentleman could not move hand 
or foot; but it gave honest John the idea 
that his friend was being put upon, and 
removed the last scruple from his mind. 

44 To the devil with him and his packet!” 
he shouted, flinging it on the table. 44 I'll 
be no lacquey ! ” 

Tom’s eyes devoured the letter now 
within reach of his hand, but he dared not 
show his eagerness. 

“ A poor lad like me has no choice,” he 
said sadly. 44 1 must fetch and carry like 
a dog, and for less than a dog’s fee. Dogs 
get a kind word and a pat of the hand 
sometimes. I don’t. Well, 1 11 carry it. 
Get thee back to thy home, good Master 
Eastman, and let this be a warning to 
thee; carry no more letters for- foreigners 
who wander about the country and may 
not tell their business, an’ you value your 
neck.” 

With which sage advice Tom pocketed 
the letter, and strolled out into the street. 

In due time Gregory Denys appeared 
mounted, and leading Hafid. 

44 Well,” wd-iispered the smith, as Tom 
sprang into his saddle, * 4 what of the let- 
ter?” 

44 I’ve got it.” 

44 By fair means? ” 

44 1 lied for it. The Lord help me ! If 
I am to be damned for lying for my mas- 
ter, I am a lost soul this day! But I’ve 
got the packet / ” 


CHAPTER X. 

44 FORGIVE HIM THIS TIME.” 

Hugh Desmond rose soon after Tom 
Steven’s departure, and walked into Staf- 
ford to buy horses (hired beasts might be 
traced) for the flitting. As he rode back 
on one of his purchases, leading the other, 
he was surprised to see several persons 
collected round his door. There w r as a 
woman on a donkey, and four men stand- 
ing by a sort of a litter made of a gate and 
green boughs. His heart, full of anxiety 
and suspicion, gave a bound as he dashed 


46 


A FAMILY TREE. 


forward into their midst, and it was some 
time before he could listen patiently to 
Dick Earle’s explanation. 

We know all that had happened up to 
the arrival of the woman at the road-side 
hovel, so there is no need to repeat it. In 
five minutes Dick had got more out of the 
hoveller’s wife than he would have ob- 
tained in a life-time from that hermit. 

Why, of course there was a house near! 
— the house of Master Desmond, a good 
gentleman and a kind ; an excellent leech 
to boot. Had he not given her some bit- 
ter stuff which had taken the “shakes” 
out of her last Martinmas? Why did not 
her good man send them to Master Des- 
mond? 

Her good man admitted that he had 
thought of Master Desmond. This was 
when that stray spark of intelligence flick- 
ered, as already narrated ; but with this 
thought came the idea that perchance the 
gentleman might die, and so save trouble. 
He did not say “ and so save trouble,” but 
that was what he meant. 

So they got help, made a litter, and here 
they were. 

“ Thou wilt surely not deny help and 
hospitality to one who spoke thee so fair- 
ly,” said Dick when, his story ended, Hugh 
Desmond made no reply, but stood gazing 
moodily upon the ground. 

Common humanity bade him receive 
the sufferer, and, on the other hand, the 
charity which begins at home urged that 
nothing should be allowed to derange his 
plans for flight. He thought only of his 
flight just then. No suspicion that the 
man in the litter could be in any way con- 
nected with his enemies occurred to him. 
When they had met at Stafford he was 
presented as a gentleman going on busi- 
ness to the North, and Dick said nothing 
now about that message to Manchester,— 
not because he had anything to conceal, 
but simply for the reason that he saw no 
necessity to mention it. 

Under any other circumstances, Hugh 
Desmond's house, and all the healing skill 
he possessed, w’ould have been cordially at 
the sufferer's service. He was a friend of 
Bosco’s, and of Martin Earle. He had, as 
Dick pleaded, spoken him (Desmoud) 


“fairly.” Above all, his anxious, pain- 
wrung face pleaded for him. 

“ There is time yet,” mused Hugh, “ to 
see to his hurts and bestow him comfort- 
ably. Better here than in yon hovel. 
Yes, he would take him in.” 

He strode up to the door and knocked. 

“ ’Tis no use,” said Dick; “we have 
been knocking for half an hour in vain. 
Art alone here, Master Desmond ? ” 

In a moment he had his answer. There 
is knocking and knocking. At the mas- 
ter’s first tap the bolts were drawn and 
the passage free. He laid his finger on his 
lip, and made a sign to Sweetheart, who 
instantly retired. 

Then Cosmo de Bibolini — known to all 
present, but one, as plain Signor Pietri, 
and unknown by that one, to have any 
connection with his hostess — was carried 
carefully to the room of the sister who 
had “disgraced” her family, was placed 
upon her own bed, and the man whom he 
had crossed the seas to kill without pity 
or defence, tended his hurts with a gentle 
hand. 

A collar-bone and three ribs were broker, 
and there was what an engraver might call 
“ a beautifully sharp impression” of a demi- 
pique saddle on his left side. What inter- 
nal injury there might be, Hugh Desmond 
could not tell. He hoped for the best as 
the patient breathed freely, and there was 
no spitting of blood; but he was badly 
bruised and shaken in that mauvais cinq 
minutes he had passed between the hard 
ground and a struggling horse, as may well 
be imagined. It was like heaven to the 
poor fellow to have his clothes cut off, and 
to be stretched on that cool, soft couch. 
Some unguent which Desmond applied to 
his side soon took the sting out. Hitherto 
he had shrank from the lightest touch — 
now he submitted himself like a weary 
child to those strong but gentle hands. 

Sweetheart remained in the adjoining 
apartment, full of wonder. It was part of 
her love-creed that Hugh Desmond could 
do no wrong; but women are quick to 
detect inconsistencies, and could not help 
contrasting his teaching with his practice. 
Why, after that episode of the beggar, 
should he let his sympathy get the better 


A FAMILY TREE. 


of his prurience, and admit a stranger who 
spoke Italian into their very house ? I 1 ow 
did she know who spoke Italian? Well, 
the wainscoting which divided the two 
rooms had a crack in it, and she was a 
daughter of Eve. She peeped, and was 
rewarded by a full view of her husband, 
and of part of a shoulder and some hair 
belonging to the man on the bed. Then 
she tried a different sense, and clapped one 
of her pretty ears to the fissure. 

“ I have seen our hostess,” Dick observed, 
as he resumed his seat by Signor Pietri’s 
side, after the in id-day meal. 

“ He is married, then ? Aye, I remem- 
ber now.” 

“ And has two sweet children — a boy 
who has just recovered from the fever, and 
a girl the very image of her mother. Most 
Illustrious, I would tliou could’st see the 
lady.” 

“ W bella?” 

“ If thou wert to ask me that in English, 
saying, Ms she beautiful ?’ I would say 
aye. Our word ‘ beautiful ’ fits her. Her 
face, her form, her voice, her smile, her 
movements, are full of beauty; and there 
is a world of it in her love for Desmond. 
She eyes him like a dog.” 

“ Fie ! Oh, for shame ! to liken such a 
lady to a dog,” said the gallant, indig- 
nantly. 

“ I said she eyed him like a dog, and if 
thou cans’t find me ought more full of ten- 
derness and trust than the gaze of a faith- 
ful hound, I will take thy simile.” 

“ Say, then, like a loving woman.” 

“ She is a loving woman. That were no 
simile.” 

“ Have thy way /’laughed the other (he 
could laugh now). And the child is like 
her?” 

“ As bud and flower.” 

“ Poetical ! Must I warn our good host 
to guard well his flower, master poet? ” 

“ An’ thou wouldst insult him — and me 
—thou cans’t,” said Dick. 

“ Nay, I did but jest. Right glad am I 
that he is so happy. He deserves to be so, 
Dick ; ’tis a noble soul. Tell me more of 
the lady. Is she dark or fair? ” 

“ Dark, with lustrous violet eyes.” 

“ That is not an English type.” 


47 

“ It is somewhat rare here, but in Ire- 
land, they say, it is common.” 

“ She is Irish, then ? ” Cosmo asked 
this with surprise. 

Irish and Savage were synonymous 
terms in those good old days , and so con- 
tinued to be in times setting up to be 
wiser, with results which are not yet re- 
moved. 

“ No,” Dick replied, “ she is a foreigner.” 

“ Indeed ! Of what country? ” 

“ I know not. She speaks our tongue 
fluently, but with just a little accent.” 

“ Think you that my being here dis- 
commodes her? ” 

Dick looked round the room, winch 
afforded several distinct proofs of female 
occupancy. Ilis meaning was quickly 
caught. 

“ I pray thee, hie to Master Desmond, 
and beg him to have me moved. Any 
chamber will do for me. I am much 
better now. I think I could walk,” said 
Cosmo. But his first effort to show his 
strength was a dismal failure, and he sank 
back exhausted with the effort. Dick, 
frightened at the pallor wiiicli came over 
his face, did hie to Master Desmond, w r ho 
promptly appeared, and having chided his 
patient for disobeying orders to remain 
perfectly still, was pressed by him to in- 
fringe them himself, by acceding to his 
request for removal. 

“It must not be,” he replied decisively. 
“ Thou art not intruding; thou must not 
stir: but I will be frank with thee. Hadst 
thou not been brought here, I and mine 
would have left' this house to-day. We 
must leave at the latest to-morrow. This is 
why (to Dick) I hesitated, and doubtless 
thou didst think me churlish, at the gate. 
We must leave thee, Signor. Trust me, 
’tis a matter of life and death; but my 
house, and all it contains, are at thy ser- 
vice, and I will send a good and trusty 
leech to tend thee. Rest, methinks, is the 
only medicine thou needest. Tell me thou 
dost not hold me wanting in hospitality. 
Indeed, indeed, I must go.” 

He was so earnest, that he heard not 
the patter of little feet upon the floor, or 
felt that a little warm hand was slipped in 
his. Children are curious animals; and 


48 


A FAMILY TREE. 


Miss Mary had been burning for hours for 
a peep at the “ poor gentleman.” She had j 
it now. She stood, finger on lip, by the 
bed-side, with that expression half of fear, 
half of pity, which the presence of suffer- 
ing will bring into the face of a child. She 
saw the “ poor gentleman ” now, and he 
saw her before her father had well ended 
his appeal. 

“ Thy child ? ” cried Cosmo, with a start; 
and the words on his tongue for reply to 
that appeal clean left him. 

“Mary, dear, how earnest thou here? 
Go to thy — go — ” Desmond began. 

“ Oh, I pray thee, let her stay,” inter- 
rupted Cosmo, eagerly, and trying to 
stretch a hand towards her. “ Thy child ! 
How strange. Wilt kiss me, little one? ” 

She looked up into her father’s face, 
saw no refusal there, and kissed the flush- 
ed cheeks on the pillow. 

“ Don’t cry,” she said, “you will be bet- 
ter soon ; papa said so.” 

Ah, the sweet faith of childhood ! Papa 
said so, and therefore it must be true. 
By this time Dick had retired to let them 
have their talk out alone. 

“Has she hurt thee?” said Desmond, 
noticing that the eyes, still fixed upon his 
child, were full of tears. 

“Hurt me! oh, no! These” (brushing 
away the drops upon his cheek) — “ are not 
for pain — not for the pain that thou canst 
cure. No, little one, you hurt me not. 
Tell her, I pray thee, that she hurt me 
not, but the touch of her innocent lips 
went to my heart. Years ago there was 
one so like her, that — that I loved dearly, 
Master Desmond, and she is lost to me.” 
He had got out a hand now, and placed it 
lovingly on little Mary’s head. 

“Thy sister?” Desmond asked, with 
an interest which he could not account for 
or restrain. 

“My only sister; the only one of my 
kin, except my poor mother, who under- 
stood and loved me. I was a wayward 
youth, rash, and thoughtless; and my 
father— a stern man— went not the right 
way with me. She, my little sister, was 
the angel in the house, the peace-maker, 
the soother of my rebellious thoughts, my 
counsellor, my friend” 


“ And she is dead ? ” 

“ Worse than dead,” Cosmo replied, bit- 
terly, “ disgraced.” 

“ Not so,” said a calm voice; “not dis- 
graced, Cosmo de Ribolini, for this is my 

HUSBAND.” 

If you have not forgotten the crack in 
the wainscot, you know who was the 
speaker. She had missed little Mary, and 
to her dismay found that the child had 
followed her to the sick-room, but why did 
he keep her there? She looked, and saw. 
She saw the soi disant Signor Pietri raise 
his face to be kissed, and knew him for her 
brother. Oh, how her heart yearned to 
him as he spoke of her so lovingly! What 
a struggle she had to refrain from rushing 
into the room and flinging herself on her 
knees by his side. Her own brother! her 
darling, handsome Cosmo! crushed, per- 
haps maimed for life! perhaps dying! 
Her brother kissing her child for love of 
her, and recalling so tenderly those old 
days when she had stood between him and 
their grim father’s wrath. But that one 
word, “ disgraced ,” dried up her tears and 
stopped the passionate beating of her heart. 
Disgraced! should any lips speak that 
word of her in the presence of the husband 
she idolized ? Her southern blood rebelled 
against the insult— to him. Pride banished 
fear. As an empress advancing to claim 
her crown on the day of coronation, she 
came before them. She wound a white 
arm around Hugh Desmond’s neck, and 
calmly uttered these memorable words: 
“ Not disgraced, Cosmo de Ribolini, 

FOR THIS IS MY HUSBAND ! ” 

“Cosmo de Ribolini!” cried Desmond, 
in a voice of anguish ; “ then we are lost ! ” 

“ I see,” said his wife, calmly as ever. 
“ Thou bearest the message those men 
expected. Our death-warrant, Cosmo.” 

He had fallen back upon his pillows 
pale as ashes. He moved his lips, but no 
sound came. 

“ And thou art come here like a spy, 
under the pretence ” 

“ Hush ! ” whispered Hugh. “ Be just; 
’tis no pretence.” 

Cosmo gave him a look of gratitude. 
Could this woman, stern as a Pythoness, 
under whose piercing gaze he quailed, be 


A FAMILY TREE. 


49 


his gentle sister, or the timid, lovable crea- 
ture described by Richard Earle? 

“ I am glad of that,” she said, “ I know 
our race is cruel; I am glad we have es- 
caped that meaner vileness. Well, you 
have found us. Is the man below thy 
comrade? Is he thy hired bravo? our 
executioner? Speak, why do you not 
reply ? ” 

The child, who understood not one 
word that was said, and, cliild-like, thought 
that she must have done something wrong, 
clung to her mother, and hid her little 
face in her robe. Then it began to dawn 
upon her that the sick gentleman must 
have been naughty. She edged her way 
shyly to the bed, and taking the hand 
which lay spent and trembling on the 
coverlet, looking up into her mother’s 
face, said pleadingly — 

“ Forgive him this time ! Oh, do ! ” 

He caught her to his bosom with a low, 
passionate sob, and murmured — 

“ Little Maria! little Maria! ” 

In an instant his sister was on her knees 
by his side, the now frightened child be- 
tween them. 

“ Oh, forgive me! ” she cried. ‘‘It can- 
not, cannot be! Oh, my brother! tell me 
there is no bond between you and those 
murderers? Tell me you will protect my 
husband ? ” 

“As God is my Judge, Maria,” he re- 
plied, “ I did not know that Master Des- 
mond was thy husband; I did know that 
ye lived here. But I am awaited in Man- 
chester, and I am the bearer of what was 
intended to be the death warrant of the 
man with whom thou didst fly from thy 
home, and of thy boy ! ” 

She gave a piercing cry, and started up. 
You who are mothers and read this, 
know whither her heart flew — w T hither her 
faltering steps were about to take her. 
Her impulse was to rush to the cot where 
she had left little Hugh, to clasp him in 
her arms, to make her bosom his shield, 
to die for him or with him. Why, even 
now, the “ man below,” about whom 
Cosmo had not replied, might have done 
his deadly errand ! But as she rose her 
brother caught her robe, and whispered — 
“ I said ‘ intended.’ ” 

4 


“ Not by thee? ” 

“ God help me ! I cannot do it.” 

The beautiful, terror-stricken face sank 
on his hand, which she covered with 
kisses and tears. 

Little Mary, who had been clinging to 
her mother, now turned again towards the 
“ poor gentleman,” put aside the dank 
locks which had fallen over his forehead 
with her chubby fingers, and nodding 
wisely at her father, said — 

“ He’s good now.” 

All this time Hugh Desmond had stood 
by with folded arms, and a tempest in his 
mind which crushed or scattered thought. > 
With amazement he saw the change that 
came over his gentle, timid Maria. With 
horror he listened to Cosmo’s avowal of 
his mission, and caught no more than his 
wife had done the peculiar intonation 
which marked the word “ intended.” 

Had the young Italian come there and 
said, “ Master Desmond, my father has 
sent me to kill thee, but I will not do his 
cruel will; nay, more, I will protect you 
and yours against all who may seek to 
carry it out ” — he would have heard him 
with the calm dignity born of honest pride 
and conscious innocence. 

What had he done to be forgiven? 
Stolen a noble maiden — but from what? 
From the arms of a cold, worn-out volup- 
tuary; from a life without a ray of love in 
it; from a compact whose main object was 
to join some patches of insensate earth 
together, though a tender heart were 
broken in the act! And for this he was 
doomed to death ! He, a free-born Eng- 
lishman, was to be assassinated upon liis 
own native soil, because he had displeased 
the Ribolini! Small cause was there — 
viewing the position coolly, as we do now 
— for gratitude to the chief assassin be- 
cause he was graciously pleased to sheathe 
his dagger. 

But the end did not come in this wise ; 
nor was it the result of any prayer for 
mercy, or appeal to brotherly affection. 
No; Desmond had not stooped an inch, 
until four baby words had laid the whole 
fabric of hatred and revenge in ruins. 
Four baby words — of which the object did 
not know the meaning, but accompanied 


50 


A FAMILY TREE 


by a mute appeal, of which the purport 
could not be mistaken — turned the scale. 
" Forgive him this time ! ” 

With other ways, but the same sweet, 
sad, plead in" look, she whom he had called 
the angel of the house had stood between 
him and his angry parent in the days of 
his unloved youth. And this was her 
child, pleading for him — to her! This 
was the new peace-maker; and when her 
solemn decision, “ He’s good now,” was 
lisped, there was no resisting. Pride, dig- 
nity, hard thoughts, fierce resolves, went 
by the board. Hugh Desmond broke down 
utterly, fell upon Sweetheart’s neck, and 
sobbed like a child. 

“ Master Desmond,” said Cosmo, “ be- 
fore I ask you to take my hand, and with 
it the pledge that no harm shall befall thee 
or thine through me, let me bare my 
heart, and show thee that I am sincere. 
Perchance thou knowest the traditions of 
our great houses ? ” 

Hugh assented. 

“ Good ! Brought up as we are, it is a 
hard thing to resist obedience to them ; 
but I did resist. I fought against my 
father’s command; I fought against my 
own revengeful feelings, which prompted 
me to obey it. I knew not that my sister 
had mated with a good man; I knew not 
that she was happy. Sometimes I thought 
that any fate was better for her than that 
we had prepared; and again family pride 
— aye, and love for her — embittered my 
soul against the man who had saved her 
from it. He had robbed me of her sweet 
company, as I thought, for ever. Will you 
believe me, good Master Desmond, when 
I tell thee that all this time I, too, had re- 
solved to do as this dear one did, and 
marry out of the narrow circle within 
which the laws of my race would confine 
my choice? Can I explain such incon- 
sistency? Not I. But it will show how 
the first glimpse of thy happiness destroyed 
the last drop of poison in my mind. Had 
I but known thee as my sister’s husband, 
it would have passed away long ago. Will 
you take my hand now, Hugh Desmond ? ” 

Need I tell what followed ? 

When Dick Earle returned, the spectacle 
presented fairly took his breath away. 


Cosmo had asked to see little Hugh, and 
the two children were there, one on each 
side, with his two arms round them; 
Sweetheart, on a low stool at his side, had 
her face on the pillow touching his; and 
Hugh Desmond, with all the gloom out of 
him, sat looking on as though it were all 
right. What could this mean? Well, 
there was no need to tell him all it meant. 
The Viscount Cosmo de Ribolini was 
Sweetheart’s brother. 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” was all Dick could say; 
and having said it, the honest fellow made 
himself as scarce as the situation de- 
manded. 

So passed the happiest hours that three 
out of that five had spent for many a year. 
Night came on, and the children dropped 
off to sleep where they lay; but no one 
thought of moving. Sweetheart was the 
first to break the spell. 

What were they to do? Should they 
all fly together? she whispered to her hus- 
band. 

Hugh looked at Cosmo, and shook his 
head. There was cause for no hurry now, 
he thought. Vincenti de la Torre would 
keep to his plan, and wait. As soon as 
Cosmo was sufficiently recovered, he could 
join his vengeful kinsman, and detain him, 
on one pretext and another, until they 
(the Desmonds) were well out of danger. 

“ He ” (meaning Vincenti) “ cannot act 
alone,” he told her. “ When he starts for 
Manchester, it will be quite time enough 
for us to leave this place.” 

This was arranged just about the same 
time of night that Tom Stevens assured 
himself, with a chuckle of satisfaction, he 
had done his master good service by send- 
ing those two travellers back upon their 
road. 

It was arranged to the satisfaction of all 
concerned. It was only when he awoke 
the next morning, with a clearer head, 
that Cosmo remembered what Dick Earle 
had done; and even then he did not know 
exactly what message had been sent. He 
only remembered that, whilst half stunned 
and wholly dazed by his crushing, Dick 
had asked where his friend lived in Man- 
chester, and what was his name. 


A FAMILY TREE. 


CHAPTER XI. 

HOW THE SNARE WAS SET. 

M Footed ! I told thee it would be so,” 
sneered the man called Marco, as his com- 
panion knocked in vain at the door of the 
hovel, which, thanks to Master Tom’s pre- 
cise instructions, they had found without 
difficulty. “ Fooled ! Did I not warn 
thee? By the Holy Virgin and all the 
saints, I will be even yet with that young 
villain ! Oh, thou mayest knock till night. 
Who could live in such a place? We have 
had our ride for naught. A whole day 
lost! Body of Bacchus! If I only had 
him here! A knave, a lying knave!” 
And so da capo. 

Marco was angry. He was angry to 
begin with, and he got more so as he went 
on. This was a mistake. The well-worn 
formula of mingled triumph and reproach, 
“ I told you .so,” is effective in proportion 
to the calmness of its application. Storm 
it out with an angry stamp* and it isn’t of 
much use. Go on nagging with it as 
Marco did, and its sting soon wears away. 
But if you desire to render an ordinary 
lord of the creation, who finds that you 
were right after all, frantic, or to send 
the average lady thereof, who finds that 
she was wrong, into a first-class rampage 
— be moderate. No loudness, no repeti- 
tion. Assume a pensive expression of 
countenance, slightly raise your eyebrows, 
and with a slight wave of the hand, thumb 
outwards, turn from the fatal spot. 

Vincenti de la Torre never got angry — 
or, at any rate, never showed anger. He 
gave Marco a look from under his evil 
brows, and half muttered, “ Animal!” but 
he left off knocking, and looked around 
him. 

The hovel did not stand on the road. 
The patch of turf in fropt of it was cut up 
by horses’ hoofs, and there were chips of 
wood and green twigs freshly cut, and 
straw strewn about around the door. As 
this was only fastened by a rude bolt, he 
pushed it open, and found that the embers 
of the fire were cold; but as he looked 
more closely, something caught his eye 
amongst the straw in a corner — a horse- 
man’s glove, and of Italian make! He 


51 

came out quite satisfied. He had not been 
fooled. 

“ Well, let us ride back,” said Marco. 
“ Why waste more time?” 

“ We have wasted none,” replied his 
kinsman. “ They have been here. See ! ” 
and he held up the glove. 

“ But have left, so what does it matter?” 
the other grumbled. 

He did not like to be robbed of his “ I 
told you so.” 

“ They have not gone far. Dismount, 
good cousin, and be patient. I know what 
has passed, as though I had seen it with 
mine eyes.” 

“ Indeed ! ” scoffed Marco. Hast second 
sight? ” 

“ It needs not that,” replied Vincenti, 
quietly, “ to read marks so plain. These 
foot-prints show that they have come here ; 
this glove, that they stayed here; yon 
twigs were cut when a litter was made to 
carry our wounded kinsman to a neigh- 
boring house. In a short time some 
one will return to tell us the rest. Be 
patient! ” 

“ A litter! How canst guess they made 
a litter? They might have been chopping 
fire-wood.” 

“ One does not chop fire-wood from green 
boughs, to begin with. They made the 
litter yonder, and then dragged it to the 
door. Here are the marks! The straw 
was brought out to make a bed upon it. 
Look down towards the road, and you will 
see the tracks of the four persons who 
carried it.” 

“Thou art a wonderful man!” sighed 
Marco, now thoroughly subdued. 

“ Not so. Only a patient one. All 
comes with patience.” 

“ As the tracks are so clear, why not 
follow them ? ” 

“I thought of that,” mused Vincenti; 
“ but — as thou art mounted, ride on a little, 
and see how far they are clear, before we 
decide.” 

They were plain enough on the turf, 
which had soaked the rain of the previous 
night; but this had quite washed them 
out of the road. And so Marco reported 
upon his return. There was nothing to 
show which way the litter had gone. 


52 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“ Better wait,” said de la Torre. 

And so they waited. 

The hoveller, his wife, and the passer-by 
whom Dick Earle had pressed into the 
service, left Desmond’s house with such a 
meal under their belts as had not warmed 
them for many a long day, and more broad 
pieces than they had earned in any year 
of their hard lives. The temptation to 
spend part of their wealth was strong, and 
so was the ale they had drunk. The men 
— as is not unusual under such circum- 
stances — became sworn friends; and as 
the stranger was bound for Stafford, the 
hoveller, who had forgotten all about his 
“ shakes,” would not hear of his going 
alone; and the woman — partly with an 
eye to business connected with a certain 
pair of shoes and a ’kerchief for which her 
soul lusted, and partly to see that her lord 
did not spend too much upon himself — in- 
sisted upon joining the party. 

They spent the night in town, and I 
regret to say that the same influence which 
had brought about that sudden friendship 
dissolved it. 

The men got very drunk, and parted 
with mutual vows of vengeance. It was 
nigh noon on the following day before the 
hoveller had slept off the worst effects of 
his unwonted potations; and then they 
jogged back, to the great delight of the 
donkey, who had somehow been neglected 
during these festivities. 

“ More on ’em ! ” cried the hoveller, as 
they came in sight of their dwelling. 
“ Lord, if there’s another accident, we’re 
made for life!” 

But his amiable hopes were doomed to 
be disappointed. There was not another 
accident — only two gentlemen who wanted 
to know what had become of the victim to 
the original one. Two gentlemen, sent by 
the messenger who had passed, bound for 
Manchester, one of whom was struck 
dumb with surprise when told whither the 
object of his search had been carried. 
For once in his life Yincenti de la Torre 
was taken aback, and showed it. 

“Is he dead? ” cried Marco, in Italian. 

“ No,” whispered the other in the same 
language, “ and I shrewdly suspect not 
even hurt.” 


The speaker’s thoughts ran with wile 
and treachery, just as naturally as his 
veins ran with blood. His creed was to 
disbelieve everything that appeared to be 
straightforward, and to seek hidden mo- 
tives for the simplest act. In a moment 
it flaslie ( d upon him that he was being 
tricked. He asked if the foreign gentle- 
man was aware to whose house he was 
being conveyed, and was told he did. 
More, that the guide knew Master Des- 
mond well, and that they had all three met 
at Stafford. “ The dotard has relented,” 
muttered Yincenti, with a bitter curse. 
“Fool that I was to tell him so much! 
But how has he discovered the man of 
whom I wrote to be Desmond ? Patience, 
patience! let me think.” His thoughts 
ran thus : If the foreigner who had been 
taken to Desmond’s house were Cosmo de 
Ribolini (and there could be little doubt of 
that), and he were really disabled, he would 
never have placed himself in the power of 
a man who had such reason to fear him, 
if he had been sent to execute the ven- 
geance of his house. Was, then, the acci- 
dent a myth, and his pretended hurt a 
pretext for obtaining an opportunity to 
carry out that vengeance single-handed? 
This might be. The cousin knew that his 
kinsman loved him not, and might be glad 
to rob him of his share in the long-cherish- 
ed scheme of revenge. And yet how could 
he count against non-recognition by his 
sister before he could act? No; this 
would indicate a recklessness out of char- 
acter with the other details of his plot. 
Was is possible that he did not know Des- 
mond as his enemy, and was really hurt? 
Marco was right, after all, about the letter 
carried by Tom Stevens. They should 
have obtained that at all hazards. Well, 
Cosmo had sent for him, at any rate, which 
proved he had no intention of acting 
alone. It also seemed to disprove the idea 
that the vendetta had been abandoned. 

Repugnant as it was to the thinker’s 
nature to believe the facts presented to be 
true and straightforward, his reflections 
dislodged him from the false positions his 
ow r n cunning had imagined. There w r as 
one thing, however, for which he could 
not account — that meeting at Stafford. He 


A FAMILY TREE 


53 


liad carefully cross-examined the hoveller’s 
wife on this point. She, surprised at Mas- 
ter Desmond’s apparent unwillingness to 
receive the sufferer, had noted well Dick 
Earle’s half reproachful appeal, and repeat- 
ed it verbatim — “Thou wilt surely 

NOT DENY HELP AND HOSPITALITY TO 
ONE WHO SPOKE THEE SO FAIRLY.” Not 
a word had passed between them on that 
occasion. The guide must have referred 
to something which had been said at Staf- 
ford, and if there were any plot, the guide 
was in it. Musing upon this, the thinker 
was carried back over the old ground, to 
shift as before, and come round again to 
what he felt was the key of the situation 
— the fair words spoken at Stafford. Had 
they met there by design ? Had they 
made friends? If so, why was Desmond 
unwilling to grant help and hospitality to 
the brother of his wife? If not, what 
could have been the cause of that fair 
speaking? 

So pondered Yincenti de la Torre, puz- 
zling his brains with their own craft. It 
may be good policy to set a thief to catch 
a thief, but put a trickster to unravel 
something that has not got a trick in it, 
and he makes a woful tangle. 

Our trickster came to only one fixed 
conclusion, and that w r as, to communicate 
with Cosmo, and find in the answer a 
solution of the doubts which perplexed 
him. He did not tell Marco of those 
doubts, but only consulted with him as to 
how they were to get at their kinsman. 

“ If I only had my beggar’s dress here !” 
sighed that worthy. 

“ ’Twould not avail us. It never did 
beyond the outer gate. We must reach 
his chamber,” said Yincenti. 

“Or wait till he is well, and departs.” 

“ Thou art improving, cousin mine. I 
have not preached patience to thee in 
vain. That we can do if all other plans 
fail ; but methinks I see a speedier way.” 
Then he turned back to the hovel, and 
called out the woman. 

“ It would seem that our friend is in 
good hands,” he said,“ and that we can do 
nothing for him, but would fain let him 
know we came to his assistance, as he 
asked us, and this without troubling good 


Master Desmond, who has been disturbed 
enough. Thou hast been rewarded for 
thy pains? ” 

“ Aye, and richly too,” she replied, 
gratefully. “ ’Tis a kind gentleman, and a 
liberal.” 

“ And thou wouldst gladly know if he 
be recovering from his hurts.” 

She assented. 

“ What more natural than thou shouldst 
show thy gratitude by going again to ask 
how he fares?” 

“ To bear thy message ? ” 

" Well, not precisely,” he said, opening 
his purse and producing a gold piece. 
“Interested as thou art in his welfare, 
thou mightest beg to see him. He could 
scarce refuse so small a favor! One does 
not thank with money alone. But verily, 
thou couldst bear my message at the same 
time, though it be not the cause of thine 
errand.” 

“Tut! tut!” she exclaimed; “speak 
out, good sir. I am to deliver thy mes- 
sage in secret — is that so?” 

He looked her straight in the face for a 
moment, and then did as she bade him. 

“ Slip a paper I will give thee into his 
hand, and this ” (giving her the gold) “ is 
thy fee. Bring back his reply, and it shall 
be doubled.” 

“ But I speak not his tongue, or he 
mine,” said the woman. 

“No matter; the reply will be 1 yes’ 
or ‘ no.’” 

Then on a leaf from his tablet he wrote 
as follows : — 

“ Art thou my kinsman ? Art really 
hurt ? Hast thou orders from Mantua ? 
I am near thee , with Marco , and will 
be in the wood behind the hovel thou 
hast left , every day at dusk till I see thee . 
Wilt meet me there as soon as thou art 
well enough ? Is thy guide to be trusted ? 
Answer by the one word , ‘ yes? or ‘ no? in 
English. 

“ Yincenti.” 

He rolled the paper into a ball, and re- 
hearsed the business of giving it with his 
messenger. She was an apt pupil. Then 
he, too, fell to wondering how so quick a 
woman could endure the life she led with 


54 


A FAMILY TREE. 


that sodden, sulky brute of a husband. 
Let him wonder. Perhaps it suited her; 
perhaps she had no choice; perhaps, with 
three gold pieces of her own, she may bet- 
ter herself. Who cares? 

We know that in all classes, except, may- 
be, the very highest, the women are more 
intelligent, as a rule, than the men. It 
may have been so, also, in the good old 
days. 

By this time Cosmo de Bibolini had 
learned from Dick all about the message 
sent to Manchester; but as neither of them 
knew that the servant of Desmond was 
its bearer, that Vincenti Porras and his 
companion w T ere on the road, or that Tom 
Stevens had orders to provide an accident 
for delaying them, the information did not 
much derange the plan of the person most 
interested. True, as matters stood, his 
kinsman would not await him in Man- 
chester. He would probably seek him at 
the hovel, and he was devising some 
scheme for detaining him there without 
needlessly alarming his hosts, when the 
arrival of the woman put quite a different 
complexion on the affair. 

Poor loving Sweetheart, overflowing 
with gratitude to those who had been of 
service to her brother, at once acceded to 
her request to see and, as she said, thank 
him for his bounty — the good, grateful 
creature ! 

So the little ball of paper was slipped 
into Cosmo’s hand, and he read the first 
words and the signature. His impulse 
was to send for Desmond, and have the 
messenger detained; but luckily (as it 
turned out) he checked himself. He made 
some excuse for getting Dick, who had 
come as interpreter, out of the room for a 
few minutes, and then, carefully perusing 
the missive, he gave the woman his reply. 

Half-way on her return, she met her 
employer. 

“ Well,” he asked, somewhat more ea- 
gerly than w r as his wont, “ hast seen 
him ? ” 

“ Aye, master.” 

“ Alone?” 

The guide was with him when I went 
up ; but he sent him away.” 


“ And then you gave him the paper?” 

“ No, I had already done so.” 

“ What said he? His reply, quick?” 

“ It was one word — ‘ Yes ! 1 ” 

“ Art sure— quite sure? ” 

“ Certain. He spoke quite plainly — 
‘ Yes.’ I asked, to make certain, ‘Yes? ’ 
and he said it again.” 

“ Good ! Thou hast done well. Here 
are thy two gold pieces. Be silent, and 
they will not be the last thou mayest 
earn.” 

“ Good ! The news was excellent — much 
better than he had hoped for. The man 
at Desmond’s w r as truly Cosmo de Kiboli- 
ni; he was hurt, he had news from Man- 
tua, and would meet him (Vincenti) as he 
had arranged. All was well, or the guide 
W’ould not have been sent away as he had 
been. That little detail was all convincing. 
It shovied that Cosmo did not trust those 
around him ! All w T as well. 

Having thought it out in this wise, Yin- 
centi sought further information from his 
messenger, and ascertained that, to the 
best of her belief, the guide had not seen 
Cosmo read the paper. After the first 
glance at it he (Cosmo) had crumpled it 
up again in his hand. Then he turned his 
back, and — as she supposed— read it. Yes, 
he was up, sitting in a chair. The lady 
had told her he was much better, and 
would be out in a day or two. Did they 
receive her kindly? Oh, yes, particularly 
the lady. And when she left, were they 
equally kind ? 

“ Why not? ” she asked, by way of reply. 
“ I had done them no harm, had I?” 

Signor Vincenti did not feel bound to 
answer this question. He had heard 
enough. 

He explained the position — according to 
his view of it — to Marco. 

“ We will go back,” he said, “ to the 
place where we rested two nights ago. 
We shall be quieter and less observed there 
than at Stafford. Let me see. This is 
Friday. On Sunday, perchance, he will 
be able to sit his horse. On Sunday, then, 
I will return. What did I say to thee 
about patience! We have been anything 
but “ fooled,” my good Marco ! ” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


55 


CHAPTER XII. 

HUGH DESMOND’S SHIELD. 

Cosmo de Ribolini was, of course, 
unaware of the effect which his sending 
Dick out of the room had produced; nor 
did it occur to him that his kinsman, Vin- 
centi de la Torre, could even suspect the 
possibility of a reconciliation between him- 
self and Desmond. 

You must remember that Desmond’s 
name was not mentioned in that letter 
which his father had shown him at Man- 
Uia. The writer had only stated that he 
was on the tracks of “ the man.” So far 
as Cosmo knew, the clue had not yet been 
obtained. He had been told nothing about 
the beggar and the conversation overheard 
by Sweetheart. 

Partly because Desmond did not wish to 
farther excite his patient, already deeply 
moved; partly because he saw no imme- 
diate necessity to tell him all the truth ; 
and a good deal because they had been so 
happy together that night, that he had not 
the heart to tell it — he kept silence. He 
also was himself only half informed. 
Years of miserable anxiety and suspicion 
had made him taciturn, had shut him up 
in his own thoughts and his own plans. 
He asked no questions. 

As for Sweetheart, she was so confident 
in her brother’s ability to protect her and 
hers, that if there had been a score of 
Vincentis in the field, she would not have 
feared them. 

The key to this unfortunate embroglio 
was the message sent by Tom Stevens. If 
Cosmo had only mentioned that, all would 
have come out; but Cosmo kept his own 
counsel. Not for an instant did he repent 
what he had done. He felt that he had 
done right, and was quiet, happy, and con- 
fident. He respected, almost loved his 
sister’s husband. Not a hair of his, or his 
child’s head should be hurt; but — here the 
Ribolini pride came in — they should be 
protected by him , Cosmo. That was his 
duty, his privilege— his alone, not to be 
shared by any one. Desmond was a ten- 
der spouse, a loving father, a brave and 
good man. His reward was that he might 
wed with a Ribolini and live ; but meddle 


in the* Ribolini’s affairs? — never! The 
stake to be played for was his life and that 
of his little son ; but he could not be per- 
mitted to take any part in the game. This 
was to be played out in the family and by 
the family. 

So Cosmo kept silent about the message 
to Manchester; kept silent about the re- 
turn of Yincenti and Marco; kept silent 
about his appointment to meet them in 
the wood; kept silent about every topic 
connected with the past; and, to make up 
for such reticence, spoke so gaily of the 
future, that his hearers began to treat 
their danger as though it had existed only 
in some nightmare, from which they had 
happily awakened. 

“ When, thinkest thou, that I shall be 
able to resume my journey?” he asked 
Hugh Desmond, the morning after the de- 
livery of Vincenti’s message. 

“ In about a week.” 

“ Oh ! less than that. See, how well I 
can walk now.” 

“ Thou hast no internal hurt, as I at 
first feared. ’Tis a simple case of bruis- 
ing, which at thy age passes off quickly. 
Thou wilt know thyself when thy bones 
are fit for the saddle.” 

“ Would it not be well for me to essay 
for a short distance a day or two before I 
make my final start, and so get some of 
the stiffness out of my limbs, and test my 
strength ? ” 

“ It would, indeed.” 

“ Then I will try to-morrow,” said 
Cosmo. 

“ I have need myself to ride abroad to- 
morrow,” Desmond replied. “ Thou canst 
bear me company part of the way.” 

“ Nay, nay, brother mine,” laughed the 
other, “not so. I am just a little proud 
of my horsemanship, and, with thy good 
leave, will be the sole witness of mine 
own awkwardness. I shall but take a 
short turn in the pleasant English lanes 
around thy dwelling. I shall go alone.” 

Thus did lie provide for keeping his ap- 
pointment with de la Torre. 

Now Tom Stevens had left at daj T break 
on the previous Thursday, and would be 
at the mill with Gregory by some time on 


56 


A FAMILY TREE, 


Sunday. Desmond’s original plan was to 
meet them there with Sweetheart and the 
children, to send Tom on in charge of the 
latter towards London, and double back 
with the young smith to meet, and, if pos- 
sible, dispose of the enemy. The enemy, 
thanks to Cosmo, had been already dis- 
posed of. Cosmo had confirmed what he 
had whispered to Sweetheart on the even- 
ing of their reconciliation. Vincenti and 
Marco w r ere at his orders. They could not 
act without him. “ Thou art quite safe,” 
he said; “ leave all to me.” This was not 
as satisfactory as it might be, but Desmond 
was proud too, and did not press the sub- 
ject. Nevertheless, he determined not to 
leave it all to Cosmo. His kinsman might 
not obey him. The old scheme might 
have to be followed, after all. 

So early on the Sunday morning he 
started on his mission, and towards the 
cool of the evening Cosmo de Ribolini 
w r ent on his, making the same excuse to 
Dick, who had volunteered his company, 
that he had already given to Desmond. 
Sweetheart accompanied him to the gate. 
He stooped and kissed her; and although 
she was only his sister, the laws of the 
haut ecole had to be observed. He bared 
his head, spurred his steed, and departed 
with a caracole, which looked mighty 
pretty, but made his sore bones ache again. 
Accustomed to the shorter twilight of the 
South, he had miscalculated his time. 
The sun was still high when he reached 
the wood in the rear of the hovel. He 
dismounted, tied up his horse to a tree, 
and was by no means sorry to stretch him- 
self upon the soft turf near its shade. He 
had not waited long before the sound of 
jingling bits and the crushing of brambles 
announced the approach of horsemen, but 
not by the road he had come. “ Here they 
are,” he said, half aloud, and mounted on 
a neighboring bank to get a better view of 
their approach. The foliage was so thick 
that he could not see them till they were 
close upon him, and then he knew that 
they were not those he expected. There 
were three riders instead of two, and the 
foremost was Hugh Desmond. 

His first thought was that he had been 
dogged, that his host mistrusted him, and 


was acting the spy; but the genuine start 
of astonishment w r ith which the latter 
reined up, checked the indignant remon- 
strance which was rising to his lips. 

Desmond, who was some twenty yards 
in advance of his followers, waved them 
back, and said in a low voice that trem- 
bled with emotion — 

“ Was it well, Signor de Ribolini, to con- 
ceal from me that thou hadst sent for 
those who compass my life ? ” 

“ Hast met them ? ” cried Cosmo, thrown 
off his guard. 

“ No ; it is good for them that I haVte 
not. ’Twas mine own servant who deli- 
vered thy letter, and turned them back on 
the road. And thou art here to meet 
them ? ” 

“ I am.” 

“ It was for this, then, that thou didst 
refuse my company. For this, the pre- 
tence of testing thy strength ! Are all thy 
protestations of this order?” 

“ Good Master Desmond, bear with me,” 
said Cosmo. “Trust me, I pray thee; I 
am acting for the best. This is my affair, 
not thine.” 

“ Not mine ! ” cried Desmond, pale with 
suppressed anger. “ Not mine, when it 
touches my life, the life of my son, and the 
happiness of my beloved wife! God’s 
truth! not my affair! and the assassins 
around my dwelling, and in league with 
one who has passed in it as my friend! 
We are three to three, Cosmo de Ribolini 
now, but stood I here alone, this should 
show thee” (striking his sword hilt) 
“ wdiose affair it is.” 

The rattle of steel brought the blood 
into the young Italian’s face, but there 
was no time to quarrel. The others might 
appear at any moment. 

“ I swear to thee,” he said, “ by all that 
is most sacred, that I am thy true and 
loyal friend. If I have deceived thee in 
aught — have kept aught from thee, it was 
for thy good. I say again, this is my 
affair. For thy wife and children’s sake 
leave it to me.” Then he told him hur- 
riedly why he had taken it upon himself, 
and what he proposed to do, concluding 
thus: “We have a wily adversary, good 
brother. He will not risk a personal en- 


A FAMILY TREE. 


counter. If he did, and was slain, what 
then? Thy danger is but postponed, not 
removed, so long as my father is of the 
same mind. Vincenti’s death at thy hand 
would only add intensity to the vandetta. 
Thou wouldst not be safe, and I less able 
to help thee. Leave it to me to meet 
guile with guile, and if the time should 
come when the knot must be cut with 
steel, my sword shall be out with thine. 
As a noble, as a knight, as a man, Hugh 
Desmond, I pledge thee my faith that I 
am true to thee.” 

“ If thou art false there is no truth— 
none. God help me ! ” said Desmond, 
pressing his outstretched hand. “ I have a 
packet for thee.” 

“ For me? ” 

“ ’Tis addressed to Signor Pietri— the 
name thou didst assume. There was a 
messenger for thee at Manchester.” 

“ Is he with thee here? ” 

“ No. ’Tis too long a tale to tell thee 
now. Suffice it for the present that the 
packet has fallen into my hands. You 
see the seals are intact. The bearer was 
from Martin Earle, of London.” 

“ Something for his nephew, doubtless,” 
replied Cosmo, carelessly, as he thrust the 
letter in his belt. “ I pray thee leave me 
now, and in an hour I will tell thee all. 
From this hour there shall be no secrets 
between us.” 

Another reassuring clasp of hands, and 
Hugh Desmond rode quietly away with 
his companions. 

Twilight had now fairly set in, and yet 
no Yincenti at the rendezvous! He had 
named no particular spot in the wood. 
“ Behind the hovel ” were his words. 
Well, the wood was deeper than broad; 
he might be waiting further on. Cosmo 
was in the act of mounting to make a 
reconnaissance, \9hen he thought of the 
letter, and half drew it from his belt. The 
outside cover was loose and a little torn. 
He could feel that there was a sealed in- 
closure. This satisfied him that Dick 
Earle must be the person most interested, 
or why had the goldsmith put on that 
outer sheet ? He thrust it back again — 
he had something else to think of now — 
rode right through the wood, and had a 


57 

good look around him in the open. Ho 
saw no one. 

But some one saw him. 

Yincenti de la Torre and his faithful 
henchman had also started early; and 
when they came to an eminence known 
as Three Tree Hill, from which a clear 
view of the wood and the road which led 
to it from Desmond’s house could be ob- 
tained, be halted, saying — 

“ Rest awhile; we are before our time. 
When he comes in sight — if he comes at 
all to-day— we can proceed.” 

But Cosmo was already at the place of 
meeting when he spoke. So they waited, 
and saw an arrival, for which they were 
unprepared, from an opposite direction. 
Three horsemen passed them in the valley 
below, and they recognized them all — the 
smith who had been accused of stealing 
Marco’s purse at Manchester; the mes- 
senger who had overtaken them with 
Dick Earle’s letter; and Hugh Desmond 
himself, mounted on the very horse that 
messenger had ridden from the hovel! 
And they all three went into the wood 
and stayed there. 

Presently Cosmo rode out into the open, 
looked about him, and returned. 

“ The wood is full of them,” whispered 
Marco. 

“ ’Tis an ambuscade ! ” muttered Yin- 
centi, between his teeth. 

Ilis favorite word, “ fooled,” rose again 
to Marco’s lips, but his companion looked 
so dangerous that he swallowed it. That 
person was, in good sooth, livid with rage. 
All his former fears came back upon him 
in a rush, intensified and cleared of doubt. 
Cosmo was in league with the enemy. 
The messenger he, Yincenti, had trusted, 
the woman he had employed, were in the 
plot! The reflection that pig-headed 
Marco was right, after all, and they had 
been fooled, almost maddened him. They 
were fooled — all but trapped. How many 
more men might there not be in ambush? 
It was a trap — a palpable trap! — but the 
snare was set in sight of the bird, and the 
bird was cunning! 

Four to two were odds which it did not 
suit Signor Yincenti de la Torre to face. 


58 


A FAMILY TREE. 


They might be ten — twenty — to two for 
aught he could tell; for others might have 
entered the wood from the hovel side, 
where the road was low, and hidden by 
the trees. 

It was some consolation, though a poor 
one, to think that he had not fallen into 
the trap, and with this he rode back the 
way he had come. If he had only waited 
ten minutes more, he would have seen 
three of the supposed ambush wending 
their way quietly along the higher part of 
the road towards Desmond’s dwelling. 

“What now, kinsman mine?” asked 
Marco, with just a tinge of triumph in his 
tone. 

He got no answer; Yincenti was plunged 
in thought. 

“How was the moon last night?” he 
asked suddenly, after they had ridden 
about a mile. 

“ There was hardly any. I was awake 
with a raging tooth, and noted how dark- 
it was.” 

“ The darker the better,” muttered the 
other. 

Cosmo de Ribolini rode back into the 
wood, wondering what had detained Yin- 
centi. 

“ Perhaps he does not deem that I could 
go forth so soon,” he mused, “ and will 
come to-morrow. Well, there is no need 
for further concealment with Desmond; I 
will come to-morrow. And yet, the twi- 
light is long. He may be here to-day. I 
will wait yet a little longer.” 

For the third time his mind went back 
to the packet. He would while away the 
time by seeing what it contained ; there 
was light enough for that. He tore off 
the outer cover addressed to Signor Pietri, 
and found within a letter sealed with the 
family seal on black wax, and directed in 
the grandiloquent style of the period : — 

“ To the most Noble, the most Il- 
lustrious and most Puissant Signor, 
The Count de Ribolini. 

“ With great haste.” 

“For my father!” he exclaimed aloud, 
so great was his astonishment. 

Then that strange instinct, presenti- 
ment — second sight — whatever it may be, 


which sometimes tells us the contents of a 
letter (be they good news or bad), though 
it come in a strange hand, or at a time 
when we expect nothing — came upon him, 
and he knew that his father was dead 
before he broke the seals. 

His father was dead — had died before 
he had left Italy. The news had followed 
him from place to place, and he had 
always missed it. If he had but waited 
two short hours at Yenice, what comfort 
could he have breathed in Marcelina’s ear! 
what hours of painful doubt, of mental 
struggle, of self-reproach he might have 
been spared! His father was dead, and 
his last articulate words were — “ Stay my 
son — tell him — I forgive — mercy l ” In the 
valley of the shadow of Death the proud 
old man had relented. Some gleam from 
the glorious face of Him who had said, 
“ YENGEANCE IS MINE, I -WILL REPAY,” 
had struck his life’s burden of hatred and 
revenge and melted it into pity. He had 
passed away to seek for mercy, with mercy 
in his heart and forgiveness on his lips. 
There was a time when his son almost 
prayed for his death, when he thought he 
could receive the news without a tear. 
He wept, now, bitterly. 

You who have watched, half stunned, in 
the silent house where the dear voice will 
be heard no more, or have lingered beside 
the fresh-made grave, loth to go forth into 
the world — alone ! strong man though you 
be, you know some of the pangs he felt. 
But a few days ago you could charge your- 
self with no want of love, of duty; but now 
a flood of remembrances bursts upon you 
amidst your tears. You recall many and 
many an act done which might have given 
pain ; many and many an act omitted 
which might have given pleasure; many 
and many a kindness not half requited; 
many and many an opportunity lost of 
paying a life-long debt of love. The best 
of sons cannot escape such self-accusation, 
and Cosmo de Ribolini was not to be 
counted as such. The dead count had 
never loved him, or, at least, had never 
shown him his love. He had been harsh 
and cold always. Yesterday Cosmo would 
have told anyone — more, he would have 
convinced himself — that their estrange- 


A FAMILY TREE. 


59 


ment was his father’s fault. Now he asked 
his own conscience if he might not have 
anticipated death in touching the soft spot 
in the old man’s heart, if he by his own 
conduct had not contributed to make that 
heart so stern ? 

It was night before he roused himself 
from these bitter reflections. There was 
no remedy. The past was in his fathers 
grave, but the future was his own. He 
was the head of the house. The Rudetta 
was doubly dead. Desmond might pro- 
claim his jvife’s lineage from the house- 
tops, if he pleased, and Marcelina — sweet, 
patient Marcelina— would be a Countess! 
He would bring her to England, until the 
gossips were done with what would be 
called his mesalliance, and how happy they 
would be all together! 

Cosmo gave the letter from Mantua to 
Desmond to read, and he broke the news 
to Sweetheart, who was not unprepared 
for it. Her brother had told her that their 
father’s life hung on a thread, and she had 
had many a cry about him with the chil- 
dren! With the children ! Ah me! Here 
again the whirligig of time brings round 
our punishment. In our young days we 
hold parents to be a respectable sort of 
people, useful and lovable in many ways, 
but, as a rule, kill-joys, wet blankets, old- 
time folks, by no means up to the period 
which we illuminate. But when we have 
children of our own, we understand what 
it may be to thwart and disobey. Sweet- 
heart hugged little Mary to her bosom, and 
prayed that she might never earn a pa- 
rent’s curse. She cried with the children 
again over the news of poor grandpapa’s 
death. They had never heard of grand- 
papa, and wondered when she sobbed, 
“He forgave me! he forgave me at last, 
my darlings! but, oh, if he had only lived 
to tell me so ! ” 

That night the inevitable explanation 
with Dick Earle was made. Poor Dick 
had been in a maze for the last three days, 
and when Tom Stevens came back he 
spoke his mind roundly. He was no 
longer of any use; he saw that he was in 
the way. Master Desmond had a servant 
who could guide the Signor to Manchester. 
The sooner he (Dick) went back to his 


business the better. But he was too good 
a fellow to be treated thus, so Cosmo told 
him all, in the presence of Desmond and 
his wife. In a few days they would all go 
to London together. 

They were seated in a room at the side 
of the house. The night was oppressively 
hot, so all the windows (or rather the 
shutters) were open, and they were group- 
ed near them to get the cool. 

Now Cosmo’s story — as matters stood — 
could be told in a few words; but to make 
his conduct clear to Dick, the now straight 
skein had to be tangled and disentangled 
again. This took some time, especially as 
the narrator desired, in self defence, to 
show that he detested the mission on 
which he had started, and thought that he 
should never have the heart to carry it 
out, even before he knew that Desmond 
was its proposed victim. He was very 
emphatic in impressing this upon Dick, 
and, just as he had concluded this topic, 
he was interrupted by a cry from Sweet- 
heart. 

“ Listen ! ” she cried. “ What was that 
moving amongst the shrubs?” 

“ A rabbit,” Desmond replied. “ The 
place is overrun by them.” 

“ They do come out on moonlight 
nights,” she said ; “ but I never have seen 
them when it was quite dark.” 

There was a general laugh at the “ bull,” 
but Sweetheart persisted it was not a 
rabbit. 

“ To satisfy thee, I will go and see if 
anyone be about, although I heard naught,” 
said her husband, rising. 

“ No, no, no ! ” she exclaimed, catching 
his arm, “ you shall not go.” 

“ Why, Sweetheart, what ails thee? ” 

“ I know not — I— perchance it was fancy. 
Oh, do not leave me.” 

“ 1 will tell thee what ails thee. Thou 
art overwrought, mine own. The excite- 
ment of the past days has made thee 
nervous. But go to thy bed.” 

“ Not till you come. Let me stay with 
thee? ” she pleaded, drawing closer to his 
side, and clasping his hand. 

“ Thou art cold — trembling,” he said, 
tenderly. 

“ ’Tis nothing! ’twill pass. Dear Cosmo, 


60 


A FAMILY TREE. ' 


forgive me, I am nervous, and I know not 
why. Do not notice me.” 

Desmond threw his arm around her, 
and signed to Cosmo to proceed. 

He took up the thread at the point 
where he received Vincenti’s message ; told 
how he intended to hoodwink that worthy, 
if he had met them at their rendezvous, 
and read the letter reporting his father’s 
death, and the last words he had spoken. 
“ So now,” he said, refolding it, “ the ven- 
detta is doubly at an end, first, because, as 
head of the house, I would not pursue it, 
and next, because it is plain, from my 
father’s last words, that ” 

“ There again ! ” shrieked Sweetheart, 
starting up. Desmond rose, too, and fold- 
ed her quivering form to his breast. He 
stood with his back to the open casement, 
she fronting it, with her face hidden on 
his shoulder. His soothing words and 
tender caresses made her lift her eyes to 
his — her eloquent, loving eyes! But as 
they rose, horror filled them ! She dashed 
him aside, and sprang between where he 
had stood and the window, just as the 
black night was scored with a flash of 
flame. A loud report followed, and the 
Sweetheart beat its last. 

Hugh Desmond’s shield was the tender 
bosom of his wife ! 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A BLACK NIGHT. 

For the better elucidation of what had 
passed at Hugh Desmond’s Staffordshire 
house, and of that which has yet to hap- 
pen there, some description of it and its 
surroundings is necessary. 

The house was a long, low structure, 
with a wing at each extremity, forming 
almost three sides of a square. It was in 
a room of one of these wings where Cosmo 
told his story, and Sweetheart fell, pierced 
by the charge intended for her husband. 
On the same side was a wood of some four 
or five acres, and which had once extend- 
ed up to the walls; but Desmond had 
about two hundred yards of it cut down, 
so as to give more light and air and less 


damp to his dwelling, and made a path 
which he bordered with evergreens, to 
flank each wing. A low stone wall sepa- 
rated the “ home close ” from the road in 
front and from the open country at the 
right side; the wood bounded it on the 
left. At the back were the stables and 
some unused farm buildings, which had 
fallen into decay. 

Although Marco, in his beggarman’s dis- 
guise, did not get beyond the outer gate, 
he made a map in his mind of the prem- 
ises. He was sent to reconnoitre, and 
soon saw his way. He wouki go down the 
wood, creep across the cut margin where 
it was narrowest, gain the laurel hedge, 
and there watch. The chance which 
brought Sweetheart out, and led her to 
take pity on his well-feigned distress, ren- 
dered these manoeuvres unnecessary, for 
that day at least. They came in after- 
wards. 

As the spy and his chief returned from 
that other wood, where the appearance of 
Desmond and Cosmo de Ribolini together 
revived Yincenti’s suspicions, you may re- 
member that he asked how the moon was; 
and being told that there was hardly any 
on the previous night, replied, “ The darker 
the better.” He had made up his mind to 
go to the house, see upon what terms 
Cosmo was there, and act accordingly. He 
imparted this resolve to Marco, and was 
told how it could be carried out. 

They entered the wood from the far 
side, fastened their horses to trees out of 
hearing, crept across the cut margin where 
it was narrowest, gained the laurel hedge, 
and watched. Hearing voices, they crept 
on to within four yards of the open case- 
ments of the room where Cosmo told his 
story, and they listened. 

Carefully as they moved, they made 
some slight stir amongst the branches, and 
this was what had startled Sweetheart. 
The night was still, and every word that 
the young Italian uttered reached them. 
When, in reply to his wife’s cry that there 
was something moving amongst the shrubs, 
Desmond proposed to go out and see if 
any one was about, Yincenti set his teeth 
and loosened his dagger in its sheath. He 


A FAMILY TREE. 


61 


dared not light the match of his pistol 
then. 

It was no part of his plan to execute his 
hate and vengeance then and there. He 
came to satisfy himself respecting Cosmo, 
and he was satisfied. He had delayed the 
death of Desmond in order that a nearer 
representative of the house he had out- 
raged should be present to confirm its sen- 
tence — and he heard that very one re- 
prieve it! He heard him tell how he had 
hoodwinked and outwitted him ! He heard 
him read the letter which showed that he 
was now the head of the family, and his 
will its law. He learned what that will 
would be — Desmond would be protected ! 
Desmond was loved by the woman he had 
stolen from him! Desmond would be 
happy ! 

Rage filled his heart, and banished all 
thought of prudence. Desmond should 
die! He stole back into the wood, struck 
a light with flint and steel carried for the 
purpose, lit the match of his pistol, and, 
maddened at the sight of the caresses with 
which his enemy sought to calm Sweet- 
heart’s fears, re-aroused by his returning 
steps, he levelled the weapon at his breast. 

Poor Sweetheart saw the glowing match, 
and the evil face which it disclosed. In an 
instant, before he could recall the motion of 
finger upon trigger, she threw her husband 
aside, took his place, and died for him ! 

When she fell, her brother and Dick 
Earle thought that she had only fainted, 
frightened by the shot fired in the garden. 
Their ears had not been accustomed to the 
horrid hiss and thud of lead as Desmond’s 
were. He knew that she was struck when 
she sank in his arms. 

There was a cruel red tear on one dear 
soft cheek that rested on his breast, a pur- 
ple spot on her delicate throat; and when 
he laid his hand upon her heart, and found 
that it beat not there came away a crim- 
son stain upon his palm. The wall behind 
was scored with slugs which had missed 
their mark; but — ah, me!— enough had 
gone true ! 

He knew that she was dead — shot 
through the heart! That no human skill 
could save her; that she was lost to him, 
in the flower of her gentle life, for ever. 


And yet he could do nothing — say noth- 
ing — but try to staunch tbs blood which 
flowed from her most trivial wound, with 
a pitiful, “ Oh, look! her pretty face! her 
pretty face ! ” 

“ God of mercies ! Is she struck ? ” 
cried Cosmo. 

He lifted his hand, and showed the cruel 
red spot upon it. 

“But not to death? Oh, say she may 
recover ! ” 

Desmond laid her face upon his bosom 
and kissed it. 

“ She is dead,” he said, looking up with 
tearless eyes, and a calmness which terri- 
fied his hearer. “ Quite dead ! ” 

The words were scarcely uttered, when 
there arose -from the garden a cry of 
“Murder! help!” This aroused all but 
Desmond from the stupor which had held 
them. Snatching up the nearest weapons, 
Cosmo and Dick Earle sprang from the 
window, and ran in the direction whence 
the sound proceeded. 

Tom Stevens and Gregory, the smith, 
had struck up a warm friendship, and the 
former was doing the honors of the kit- 
chen when the shot was fired. On their 
ride back from the old mill Desmond had 
told them that his life was threatened, 
that his wife and children were in danger, 
and so accounted, without entering into 
details, for having sent for Gregory. The 
two were discussing this over their ale, 
and wondering who could have a grudge 
against so good a man, when they heard 
the report of firearms. In an instant they 
were on their way to the house to see 
what had happened, but as they crossed 
the yard they perceived two dark forms 
gliding along under cover of the even 
greens, and making for the road. They 
gave chase, and the moment they were 
noticed the fugitives separated, the one 
turning back into the wood, the other tak- 
ing to the open meadow. This was a tall, 
active man, and Tom (whom chance had 
selected as his pursuer) would have been 
easily outrun if accident had not helped 
him. The tall man slipped over a stump, 
fell, and before he could rise again, Tom 
seized him by the throat, shouting, “ Mur- 
der! help!” 


62 


A FAMILY TREE. 


He had no immediate reason to use the 
first word; he did not know that murder 
had been done, but there quickly came 
good cause to repeat his cry, for as they 
rolled, struggling on the ground, Marco 
drew his knife and stabbed him twice in 
the back. At each blow he cried anew, 
‘‘Murder! help!” and tightened his grasp 
upon the assassin’s throat, holding on with 
the tenacity of a bull-dog, and the courage 
of a hero. Cosmo and Dick Earle came 
up only just in time. The knife was 
raised for the third time, and now might 
and strength had prevailed. The man was 
uppermost, and the brave boy’s side un- 
protected against the stroke. Cosmo seized 
his wrist, wrenched the dagger from him, 
and with its pommel dealt him such a buffet 
on the head as laid him senseless for the 
next twenty minutes. 

“ Good lad ! brave lad ! ” said Cosmo. 
“We have one of them safe; now bind 
him, in case he should recover, whilst we 
follow the other.” 

But poor, faithful Tom, had done all he 
could that day. He tried hard to rise, but 
fainted with pain and loss of blood. At 
the same moment they were joined by 
Gregory, who reported that he had lost all 
trace of the other man in the wood, where, 
however he had found two horses saddled 
and bridled (evidently those upon which 
the murderers had come), tethered there 
whilst they were at their deadly work. 

“ Secure the horses at once,” said ready 
Dick, “ and so cut off his chance of flight. 
On foot, as he is, we shall have him yet. 
Let us carry this poor boy to the house, 
and then scour the country on his own 
steeds. He cannot be far off.” 

“Quick, then,” Cosmo replied. “And 
as for thee,” (turning towards where 
Marco lay,) “ as there is no time to bind 
thee, I will make sure another way.” But 
Dick interposed. 

“No, no! Would you slay a stunned 
man? No; villain as he is, that were a 
crime. Leave him to me. As soon as we 
have carried in the boy, I will return with 
cords and secure him.” 

They found Hugh Desmond as they had 
left him, on the floor of his now desolate 
home, with Sweetheart’s head upon bis 


breast. The same fixed look was on his 
face, the same dull light in his tearless 
eyes. Grief had frozen up even its own 
expression. When they told him that he 
must go and dress Tom Stevens’ wounds, 
he said, “Yes, yes, presently; but do not 
disturb her. Bring me a pillow.” 

“ May we not carry her to her bed?” 
whispered Cosmo. 

“ As you will.” 

They led him away like a man in a 
trance, but the sight of his servant’s 
wounds stung his stunned senses into 
life. 

“Who did this?” he cried fiercely. 
“ Who has stabbed my servant? ” 

“ I pray thee, ask no questions now,” 
Cosmo pleaded, “ but bind up his hurts. 
See how they bleed.” 

He obeyed mechanically, but his skilful 
hands could not forget their office. The 
bleeding was staunched, and Tom revived. 
His first words were, “ Have you got 
him?” 

“ Safe,” replied Cosmo. “ Even now 
Master Earle is binding him.” 

“ And the other? ” 

“ Escaped for the present; but we have 
his horses, and ” 

At the word “ escaped,” Hugh Desmond 
uttered a cry fearful to hear. Until now 
the agony caused by Sweetheart's death 
had crushed dowu all thought about her 
destroyers. It came upon him with a 
crash. 

“ Who has escaped ? ” he cried. “ Not 
Vincenti! Tell me it is not Vincenti if 
ye would not drive me mad ! Which man 
is bound ? ” 

“ The tall one; but it might have been 
be who fired.” 

“ The instrument — the base, cruel in- 
strument, if it were; but not the insti- 
gator,” Desmond moaned. “ Why stand 
ye here when he is gone ? To horse ! to 
horse! and chase. But,” he added in a 
calmer tone, “ let no one harm him ; leave 
him to me. Stay him, bold him, if fate 
wills that any of ye encounter him; but, 
an’ ye love me, take not his life! Leave 
him to me.” 

Cosmo and Desmond each saddled his 
own horse. Earle and Gregory, to save 


A FAMILY TREE. 


63 


time, mounted those which the latter had 
found in the wood. There were thus two 
steeds left behind in the stable. No one 
thought of locking the door; no one re- 
membered that the children were left alone 
and unprotected. 

The report of the shot which made 
them motherless awoke the poor little 
things. They heard the shouts in the 
wood, the trampling of horses in the yard, 
heavy footsteps in the adjoining room, and 
wondered what it all could mean. They 
wondered more than all why mamma did 
not come to quiet their fears. If a storm 
arose at night, if a door slammed, if they 
awoke frightened by a dream — the next 
thing they knew was that her loving arms 
were round them, and that her soft voice 
w r as w'hispering between her kisses — “ It 
is nothing; be not afraid, my darlings!” 
Why did she not come and kiss and com- 
fort them now? They dare not rise in 
the dark, but sat up in their little bed, 
clutching each other, crying silently, too 
frightened to call out, and asking in for- 
lorn whispers, “ Oh ! will dear mamma 
never come?” Never, poor little hearts! 
never again ! The loving arms are cold — 
the soft voice hushed for ever! 

Then the house became silent again, and 
their fears subsided. The very fact that 
dear mamma did not come consoled them 
after a while, “ For,” reasoned little Maria, 
u she w'ould be sure to come if she thought 
we w r ere frightened.” 

“ Besides,” said her brother, “ papa ’s 
here now'; so there’s nothing to be fright- 
ened at.” 

He w'as not there. Besides themselves 
there was no living creature in the house 
save Tom Stevens, and he could not move 
hand or foot to help them. The doors 
stood open — left so in their hurry and ex- 
citement when Desmond and his com- 
panions rode away after the fugitive as- 
sassin. All was dark and silent. 

Placing Cosmo de Ribolini, Dick Earle, 
and Gregory on the outskirts of the w f ood, 
Desmond entered it on foot, and searched 
as thoroughly as the darkness allowed. 
There w’as no one to be found, and, except 
for a very short distance no traces of the 
man they sought. 


“ He doubled, and made for the road,” 
said Desmond. “ When Gregory cut him 
off from the horses we will all gallop three 
miles in different directions, and then re- 
turn slowdy in circles towards the house. 
Earle, w'ill you ride towards Stafford? 
Gregory, hie thee along the road to the 
right; I will take the open country this 
W'ay; and you, Signor Cosmo, the opposite 
direction. Oh, God! for half an hour of 
daylight! Spare not your horses ! Gallop 
out so as to head him ! and then search 
every gully and break on either hand! 
Aw’ay, my friends — aw f ay ! An’ ye see him, 
shout — shout, and fire your pistols ! Take 
him alive! Kill him only in the last ex- 
tremity! He must not escape. Aw^ay!” 

They understood, and obeyed him as one 
man. East, w r est, north, and south they 
sped. So well was the plan executed, that 
before the lapse of one hour, three out of 
the four had met and parted again, nar- 
row-big the circle. All w r ent w r ell at first. 
Just as day had begun to break, Earle and 
Desmond heard the report of firearms, fol- 
lowed by a shout from Gregory. They 
made a dash for the spot (the heath W'here 
Cosmo had fallen), and found, after a long 
chase in the adjoining w'ood, that it w’as 
only the hoveller, whom the smith had 
sighted in the half light and mistaken for 
their quarry. The poor wretch w r as snar- 
ing rabbits; and finding himself ridden 
after and (as he supposed) shot at, took to 
his heels, dived into the thickest part of 
the copse, and gave his pursuers a good 
hour’s work before they found out their 
mistake. It w'as a bitter disappointment. 
Not only had it delayed their search at a 
most inopportune time, but it had left two 
sides of the ground open for the escape of 
the real fugitive. 

Having thus diverted their quest, it was 
only fair that the hoveller should be press- 
ed into its service. He was stationed on 
the hill from which Yincenti de la Torre 
had obtained such a good view of the sur- 
rounding country, with orders to keep a 
strict watch, and shout as loud as his lungs 
would let him if he saw any one but the 
hunters moving. 

It w r as now broad daylight, and they 
had been six hours on horseback. They 


64 


A FAMILY TREE. 


started, convinced that the assassin of 
Sweetheart could not possibly escape them. 
They now, one and all, began to wonder 
how they had ever expected to catch 
him. 

How often this will happen! We start 
with a sense of the hopelessness of our 
task, and obstacle after obstacle melts 
away as we approach it. We begin full 
of confidence, and difficulty after difficulty 
rises to balk us ! 

So it was with Desmond and his friends. 
The farther they rode, the closer they 
searched, the more hopeless did their 
efforts appear. What could four men do in 
6uch a country as that, all hill and valley on 
three sides, and a wide, rolling heath on 
the other, full of holes and fernbrakes, in 
which a dozen men could hide even in 
daylight? And this night was black as 
Erebus. Only one of them knew the lay 
of the land, and he made a great mistake 
when he chose the open country. He did 
so because on his good “Hafid” he was 
the best mounted. He did not consider 
that the others might lose themselves in a 
wood and thicket, and pass over the same 
ground without knowing it. All went 
right at first, but in a short time the well- 
laid plan became deranged. Cosmo mis- 
took his direction, and rode aw T ay from 
the house; Gregory got lost in a w ? ood; 
Earle followed the same line which Des- 
mond had taken; and, as wo have already 
seen, the last three all packed together at 
daylight. They had been six hours in the 
saddle, and had not spared their horses. 
Wearied men and jaded steeds turned 
back to the Grange, where they found that 
a further crime had been committed. 

Dick Earle was the first to enter its 
gates, and remembering the position in 
which he had left the man Marco, went 
straight to the spot. “ If that blow on the 
head has not settled him for good and all,” 
he mused, “ he will be conscious by this 
time.” To his amazement neither man 
nor body was there! Had he slipped the 
ropes? No; but some one had cut them. 
There they lay in a dozen fragments — 
clean slashed through all their folds. He 
had scarcely realized all this, when there 
arose a piercing cry from the house. 


Desmond had returned. Asleep beside 
her mother’s corpse he found his girl — the 
boy w r as gone ! 

So also were the two fresh horses. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE CASKET WITH THREE KEYS. 

The experiment made before her own 
eyes of the effect of sudden heat upon 
unholy water had considerably shaken 
Martha Denys’ impression that her master 
w 7 as in league with the powers of darkness. 
Her son, instead of merely laughing at her 
fears as heretofore, set to work at remov- 
ing them now that affairs had taken so 
grave a turn outside ; and actually got her 
to accompany him over the old brewhouse> 
and judge for herself as to the character 
of its contents. 

“ Bring as much holy water as thou wilt, 
and throw 7 it where thou pleasest. Thou 
canst rust some tools, and put out the 
forge fire, an thou dost pour enough ; but 
that is all,” he said. 

She declined to renew her test, and lis- 
tened patiently to his explanation, under 
wdiich even the awe-conspiring machine 
itself was stripped of its demoniacal char- 
acter, and stood an innocent but com- 
plicated construction of rolls, and wheels 
and cranks, which moved backwards and 
forwards at her will. The bones, about 
which the towm was raving, had no horrors 
for her. She had seen them come in a 
cart. 

But the strongest influence in her mas- 
ters favor — an influence w’hich removed 
her last suspicion, and made her his w 7 arm 
defender — arose out of his condemnation 
by tfhe people, and their ingratitude. The 
man who had saved her life, whose bounty 
to the poor had passed through her hands, 
whose unnumbered acts of kindness were 
well-known to her, was at his w r orst (as it 
seemed) a noble soul tempted by the evil 
one. As such she had feared for him, 
prayed for him, and loved him throughout. 
How dared they (the people) condemn 
him ! How dared they circulate and credit 
such lies ! How dared they threaten his 
life! 


A FAMILY TREE. 


65 


You may force yourself to believe hard 
things against one you love! may blame 
him, may grow cold to him; but let an 
outsider come and give expression to your 
own convictions, and away fly hard 
thoughts, and blame, and coldness, leaving 
the love stronger than ever. Take sides 
between husband and wife, and see if you 
don’t make enemies of both. Interfere 
with the intestine strife of a nation, and 
the belligerents will make peace if only to 
resent your impertinence. Had the good 
folks of Manchester let Hugh Desmond 
alone, it is possible that some unsatisfied 
doubt would have smouldered in the breast 
of his house-keeper for all time; but 
treating him as they did, the last spark 
was extinguished. 

Loyally and bravely she remained at her 
post, guarding the house confided to her 
care, though several well-disposed neigh- 
bors begged her to quit the accursed 
place, and offered her a home with them. 
Not a step would she budge, not a door 
would she open, though Master Willford 
tried hard to get admission under various 
pretences. Loyally and bravely she met 
the accusations current against her absent 
master, and stood up for him ; rated some 
roundly for their ingratitude, and some for 
their folly, getting sharp answers and cold 
looks for her pains, until at last she was 
pelted in the streets, and the awful cry, 
“Witch! witch!” raised after her once 
more. 

This was Master Willford’s work. It 
did not suit him that his strong point — 
the discovery of those bones — should be 
explained away. Now that Desmond was 
pronounced a wizard, all he had argued in 
favor of the poor old woman went for 
naught. The crafty witch-finder had only 
to recall what had passed that day on the 
banks of the Irwell, not only to render 
innocuous all Martha Denys could say, but 
to keep her at home on peril of her life. 
Thus he silenced her, and kept the fire 
ablaze against her master. 

She was quite alone now. Ten days had 
passed since Gregory had gone — she knew 
not whither — at Hugh Desmond’s bidding, 
and nothing had been heard of him. She 
had no friend, no protection now, and so 


great had become the outcry against her 
that she dared not set her foot abroad 
even to buy the ordinary necessities of life. 
She was half-starved ; but the thought of 
escaping her trouble by flight never entered 
her mind. The suspicion that Desmond 
had deserted her never once dawned upon 
it. Knowing the temper of the town as 
she did, she prayed that he might not 
return. Gregory would warn him. Gre- 
gory would be sent for her— might come 
at any moment. So the faithful creature 
waited and watched, true to her charge, 
true to her faith in the goodness of the man 
for whose sake she had been beaten from 
the streets and denied a crust of bread. 

For the last day or two she had lived on 
unleavened cakes made from some grain 
she found in the stable, and which, as 
there was no fuel left in the house, she 
baked at the forge. She had now got 
quite accustomed to the old brewhouse. 
There was barely a measure of corn to 
begin with, and just two handfuls of it 
were left. They were put by for the pre- 
sent, but hunger drove her to them long 
before its dawn. She pounded the grain 
as fine as she could, mixed the dough, 
blew up the fire into a blaze, and by its 
light saw what she took for Hugh Des- 
mond’s ghost watching her. 

Her terror was so intense that she could 
neither shriek or move, or turn her eyes 
from the object, or evade it as it rose and 
placed a hand on her shoulder. Well 
might she take it for her master’s spirit, 
if spirits from the other world appear as 
when Death’s icy hand closes upon them 
in this. Wan, haggard, aged, shrunken, 
and grey, as though twenty years had 
passed over his head; but it was Hugh 
Desmond, alive ! His hand upon her 
shoulder was flesh and blood, but his face 
was the ghost of what she remembered it, 
and from his lips came the ghost of his 
once cheery voice. 

“Why, Martha! thou here? For what 
purpose hast thou lit the fire?” 

In a few words she told him her plight, 
and his peril. 

“Good, faithful friend,” he exclaimed, 

“ thou shalt not suffer,” and he made to- 
wards the door. 


66 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“What wouldst thou do?” she cried, 
detaining him. 

“ Buy thee food.” 

“ They will kill thee.” 

“ Let them.” 

“ Master! master! they have threat- 
ened ” 

“ The curs ! Yes, they have threatened, 
have snarled, but they dare not bite.” 

“ But thou art unarmed,” persisted the 
dame, touching his empty belt. 

“ This,” raising his riding-whip, “ will 
suffice. I pray thee let me pass.” 

All good folks had been abed and asleep 
for two hours when Hugh Desmond strode 
along the dark and deserted streets to the 
Golden Boar. To take the bull by the 
horns, to bell the cat, to meet danger three- 
fourths of the way, had been his policy 
through a life which had known many 
dangers, and he was not going to flinch 
now. He made straight for the Golden 
Boar, knocked up a drawer, made a raid 
upon the larder, and was on his way back, 
laden with meat, bread, and wine, before 
that domestic was fairly awake, and could 
summon courage to cry “ Thieves ! ” which 
he did lustily, as soon as the marauder was 
well out of hearing. 

The first person who appeared in an- 
swer to this alarm w ? as Master Willford. 
Perhaps he had been roused by the knock- 
ing, for he came forth from his chamber 
dressed and with his sword on. 

Leaving Dame Martha to appease her 
hunger, Hugh Desmond went to his own 
room and returned with several parch- 
ments and a small iron box. 

“ Give me all your attention,” he said, 
“ for what I have to say is of the last im- 
port to me, and — what is left of mine.” 

“What is left?” she asked, struck by 
the utter despair which marked his con- 
cluding words. 

“ Aye, what is left,” he repeated. “ Some- 
times it seems as though it were years and 
years ago, sometimes as but yesterday, 
good Martha, that I had a loving, tender 
wife and two sweet children. Nay, inter- 
rupt me not. My wife is dead — murdered. 
My boy was stolen from me by her assas- 
sins in the confusion which followed her 
death. I must, I will find him, Martha, 


and every hour I delay here may add days 
to my agony of suspense, therefore ask no 
questions, but do my bidding. Thou hast 
been faithful in a small matter; can I 
trust thee with a weighty one? ” 

“ I am but a poor lone woman, and ” 

“Yes, yes, I know what thou wouldst 
say. Gregory, thy son, will be here to- 
morrow. He will take thee to a place of 
safety, but I must leave at once, perhaps 
never to return.” 

“ It is best so,” she replied, quickly. 
“ Thy life ” 

“ Is a charmed one, I fear,” he said, “ but 
let that pass. I am a rich man in worldly 
goods; and these” (laying his hand upon 
the parchments) — “ represent the bulk of 
my possessions. I may not carry them 
with me. I must place them in safe 

custody until I find my boy, or Now, 

mark me: I shall place them in yonder 
casket. It w T as intended for a very differ- 
ent purpose, but it will serve for this. It 
opens w r ith three keys, if they be properly 
applied. Here they are: one iron, one 
silver, one gold. Should opportunity 
serve, I shall make a formal disposition of 
my property by will in favor of my chil- 
dren— or my child; and if I should fall 
before we meet again, thou wilt deliver the 
casket and its contents to such as by my 
will are entitled to hold it. But I may 
have no chance of making such a dispo- 
sition, therefore I have shown thee these 
keys. They will speak my will. If ever 
they are brought to thee, be sure that 
Hugh Desmond is dead, and that the 
bearer has been trusted by him with them, 
and more. Dost comprehend me?” 

“I do ; but how am I to protect so 
sacred a charge ? ” cried Martha, wringing 
her hands. 

“ Thy son will help thee.” 

“ Alas ! he is but a poor smith, and when 
thou art gone — : — ” 

“ I have many powerful enemies,” he 
interrupted, “ and my friends are few and 
humble— all but one. I try to submit to 
the punishment with which it has pleased 
God to afflict me, but I do not believe that 
my sins will be visited upon my innocent 
children. I believe in the Almighty’s jus- 
tice, and in some men’s gratitude.” 


A FAMILY TREE. 67 


“ Be sure of mine, , ’ she said, taking his 
hand, and kissing it. 

Martha Denys was an old woman, not 
in years, perhaps, but worn and faded by 
care. She had nothing of the charm which 
makes the winter of a happy life as lovely 
as its spring. Her grey locks were scanty, 
her eyes were dim, her cheeks haggard and 
colorless, and yet as she spoke there came 
into her face a light which made it almost 
beautiful — the light of truth shining from 
a grateful heart. 

“ Thou hast proved thyself loyal and 
true,” he replied, “ so has thy son, and so 
also has a poor lad who is grievously hurt 
for my sake. You are the only three upon 
whom I can count, for the other will soon 
go to his own country.” 

“Oh, master! there be surely others! 
Thou art so generous, so noble ! Be cer- 
tain thou hast made friends, great and 
powerful.” 

“ When Goliath of Gath came forth 
against Israel, did the king’s captains save 
him ? Did his mighty men of w\ar rid him 
of the Philistines? No! a pebble of the 
brook from the sling of a poor shepherd 
slew the giant. God’s ways are not our 
ways, Martha Denys, and He has planted 
a conviction here ” (laying his hand upon 
his heart) — “ which tells me who will pro- 
tect the innocent when I am gone. It 
was in my mind,” he continued, after a 
pause, “ to take an oath from thee that 
thou wouldst faithfully perform the trust 
of which I spoke just now.” 

“ I will swear.” 

“ Thou shalt, but as above, hear me 
first.” 

He rose, lifted his right hand on high, 
and in a measured solemn voice spoke 
these words. 

“ May God so deal with me and mine , as 
I and they — knotting of this my vow — deal 
with thee and thine ; so long as there may 
be a Desmond with power to protect , and a 
Denys who needs protection. 

She knelt by his side, and echoed him 
thus : 

“ And may Re so deal with me and 
mine ; as I and they — with knowledge of 
my oath— deal with thee and thine ; so long 


as there may be a Denys to serve and a 
Desmond who needs our service .” 

He stooped down over her, kissed her 
poor furrowed brow with a son’s reverence, 
gathered up the parchments, and was 
about to open the casket which w’as to 
contain them, when it suddenly occurred 
to him that he had left the outer gate, 
leading from \he yard into the street, open. 
Going out for* Dame Martha’s supper he 
had only closed, without fastening it, and 
returning with his hands full, had shoul- 
dered it ajar and passed in intending to 
come back and bolt it when he had dis- 
posed of his load. He “ made ” it securely 
enough this time, and once more had his 
hand on the casket. 

This strange piece of workmanship has 
been described in the first chapter of my 
story. It was not quite finished even now 
as to its outward decoration, but this did 
not affect its strength. Though by no 
means large, it was immensely strong, and 
compact. Small as were its keys, they 
moved with ease three broad bolts of steel 
which shot into the mass of the lid, and 
held it as though it were forged in one 
mass with the rest. No violence from 
without could loosen their hold: no in- 
strument known in those days could force 
them. The casket might, indeed, be 
broken to pieces by repeated blow r s of the 
heaviest sledge-hammer, but nothing, save 
its own keys, could open it; and they had 
to be applied— as its maker had hinted — 
properly. He had expressed all the 
knowledge of lock-making he had acquired 
abroad, and all his own ingenuity in mak- 
ing the opening a puzzle. It was a labor 
of love. The casket was intended for 
Sweetheart’s jewels, and often, as he 
worked upon it, he had smiled in antici- 
pation of her surprise when, with the keys 
at her command, she should find that she 
could not open it. Alas! she was in her 
grave. She w r ould never see the quaint 
fancies his loving hands had fashioned for 
her. They would never be completed now. 

He gathered up the parchments, and 
opened the casket in this wise. He un- 
locked it with the gold key; he unlocked 
it with the silver key; he locked it with 


68 


A FAMILY TREE. 


the key of iron, and, this done, a fourth 
key hole appeared, into which the gold 
key being pressed, without turning it, the 
lid rose by itself. To close it, the above 
process had to be reversed. 

Then he returned to where Dame 
Martha sat, pondering over what he had 
told her, and indicating the small iron 
box, before mentioned, said, 

“ This is for thee. Gregory will be here 
to-morrow — perhaps to-night. He will 
help thee to remove the casket, but in the 
meantime I will place it beyond the reach 
of our enemies.” 

As he spoke he pressed his heel upon 
the corner of one of the flagstones close to 
the forge and it turned up on a pivot dis- 
closing a small vault. 

“ I know not for what purpose this place 
was made,” he said, as she drew back in 
surprise and crossed herself vigorously, “ I 
discovered it by accident, and little thought 
it would some day stand me in need. It 
will serve me now.” 

He lowered the casket, replaced the 
stone, and continued, “ I have given thee 
and thy son this house with all it contains. 
When the brainless cry against us, has 
died out (as it will shortly) thou can’st 
return and dwell here or deal with the 
place as ye list. It is thine. For thy 
present wants take this (pressing a heavy 
purse into her hand). If I am alive this 
day month, I will see thee again where 
Gregory will conduct thee, and — Ha! 
What mean those lights?” 

She had no time to thank him for his 
bounty, and one glance through the half- 
closed door sufficed to answer the question 
which had interrupted his instructions. 

The street was full of an infuriated mob 
bearing torches and shouting “ He has 
come back! He is in his Devil’s den 
again ! Death to the Wizard ! ” 

“Fly, for thy life,” whispered Martha; 
u fly by the yard wicket door which leads 
to the river — lose not a moment — fly or 
they will kill thee. 

“ But the casket — the papers! ” 

“ Leave them to me. What are they in 
comparison with thy life ? Fly, fly ! ” 

“And abandon thee to their fury? 
Never! ” 


“ I have a hiding-place they cannot find. 
For thy children’s sake save thyself, and 
trust to me.” 

She barred the massive doors of the 
laboratory as she spoke. The mob was 
increasing, the shouts grew louder. As 
the fugitives crossed the yard the whole 
street seemed ablaze, but the enemy was 
too infuriated to think of the commonest 
strategy. Their attack was confined to 
the front; the rear was dark and silent. 
Desmond had gained the fields by the 
water side, and Dame Martha was in her 
hiding-place, before a crash and a fierce 
cheer announced that the outer gates had 
given way, and the house was at the 
mercy of the mob. 

Some made for the dwelling rooms and 
began to destroy and plunder, but the 
main body surrounded the old brew house 
waving their torches and screaming “ Burn 
him! Burn him in his den!” Whilst the 
most vigorous and practical brought straw 
from the stable, and faggots from the wood 
stack, which they piled against the doors, 
or threw torches through the windows, to 
carry out the verdict. A goodly heap of 
combustible matter was thus obtained, and 
was well ablaze when Master Willford ap- 
peared on the scene agitated by the 
strangest excitement. He dashed aside 
those who were feeding the flames. He 
tore away the burning faggots with his 
naked hands. He stamped upon the glow- 
ing straw and shouted to his friends — liis 
dear friends ! to help him for God’s sake. 

“Put out the fire!” he shouted; “drag 
these logs away, bring w r ater! Oh, bring 
water ! ” 

Now Master Willford was the instigator, 
if not the leader, of this raid. He had 
followed Desmond from the “Golden 
Boar” unperceived by him, into the yard, 
where, crouched under one of the lower 
windows, he overheard a good deal of 
what Dame Martha had been told. Luckily 
for himself he made good his retreat a 
few moments before her master bethought 
him of the open door. Late as it was the 
witch-finder knocked up his principal ad- 
herents. He told them that the Lord had 
delivered the Wizard into their hands, and 
bade each go forth, and rouse the righteous 


A FAMILY TREE. 


of his acquaintance — with what result we 
know. The news ran fast — too fast. The 
mob rose, and had half done their work 
before their chief arrived to direct it. 


CHAPTER XY. 

MINE AND COUNTERMINE. 

Enthusiasm is catching. Master Will- 
ford seemed so thoroughly in earnest 
in his own efforts to put out the fire, 
and called so peremptorily for help to do 
so, that many took it for granted that he 
must be right, and assisted him. Some 
dragged away the crackling faggots, and 
some ran for water to throw upon them, 
Master Willford encouraging them with a 
“ Well done ! Bravely done ! More water, 
good lad. Ha! that was right! Oh, my 
masters, how could you have been so rash ? 
Out with the fire; then we will force the 
doors, and take him alive! ” 

He did not want to take him alive; but 
it by no means suited him that they should 
burn the old brewliouse, where the casket 
was. It was not eagerness to capture the 
reputed wizard alive which prompted his 
efforts against the doors, when the fire had 
been scattered and stamped out. It was 
not Hugh Desmond he was striving so 
hard to save. 

Under his directions axes were procured, 
and many a lusty blow fell upon the great 
doors. A heavy bench was brought from 
the house, and made into a battering-ram, 
which six strong men charged against 
them. When they gave way, the mob 
would rush in and execute their blind 
vengeance upon the wizard, and — all 
would be well. 

Thud — d! thud — d! thud— d! went the 
battering-ram; but the great doors shook 
and groaned — that was all. Iron-clasped, 
and bossed all over, they were too hot to 
handle, too strong to yield to the instru- 
ments brought against them. 

A sullen murmur ran through the crowd. 
Master Willford had spoiled their sport. 
Master Willford could not force the en- 
trance, as he had promised. Why hadn’t 
he left them alone? What right had he 
to order them? What was the use of 


69 

breaking in ? — burning was a proper death 
for a wizard ! 

He knew what mobs are made of, and 
he knew that this one was slipping from 
under his control. His once most obedient 
adherents had thrown down their impro- 
vised battering-engine, saying it was no 
use, and were muttering together. 

The old cry, “ Death to the wizard ! 
Burn him! burn him!” again arose; and 
some began to collect the fragments of the 
extinguished bonfire in order to begin 
again their own way. They were spared 
this trouble. One of the torches which 
had been flung through the windows be- 
fore Master Willford’s arrival, had fallen 
into the corner which Desmond used as a 
laboratory. As it fell, it broke a large 
flask full of alcohol, and sent its contents 
in a flaring stream over and down the 
shelving, which, being constructed of old 
and dry wood, was quickly enveloped in 
flames. The roof had caught, and the 
whole inside was well aglow before the 
mob — concentrated at the front, where 
there was no aperture but those obstinate 
doors — became aware of the joyful fact. 

As they rebelled and scattered, some 
passing round the side saw the light; and 
then what a scream of exultation arose! 
The cursed place was on fire within. They 
had the wizard now. If they could not 
break in, he could not break out. He was 
doomed. His own evil den would be his 
death-pyre ! 

His persecutors became drunk with joy. 
No one could restrain them now. More 
torches were hurled through the windows; 
but the flames within needed no such 
stimulant. They roared and raged like 
some caged monster, until at last they 
burst forth. Down came the roof with an 
awful crash, dragging with it the greater 
portion of one of the side walls. 

Smothered under this mass of brick and 
dust, the conflagration never regained its 
mastery. Here and there it flickered up, 
but it had done its worst. 

When ttye flames first blazed out, the 
heat became so great that the mob was 
forced back, step by step, until the yard 
was abandoned. Fortunately for adjacent 
houses, there was no wind; the flames 


70 


A FAMILY TREE. 


went straight up into the calm night. 
Hugh Desmond, riding alone over Kersal 
Moor, saw the light in the sky, and knew 
what it meant. 

Before daybreak the fire, and the fury 
of those who had raised it, burned them- 
selves out. The one left a black heap of 
smoking ruins; the other an unpleasant 
feeling that a mistake had been made, for 
which some one would have to answer. 
When the joyful fact that the “ devil’s 
den ” was on fire inside became known, a 
score of eager disputants contended for the 
honor and glory of having thrown the 
torch which lit the conflagration. It was 
curious now to note that no one would 
admit having had a torch at all! Every 
one had just come out to see what was 
going on — no more. 

Master Willford came into favor again, 
and the number of persons who begged 
him to remember how actively they had 
assisted him in putting out the fire was 
remarkable. Several of these had cursed 
and hustled him when the fickle crowd 
turned against his interference; but he 
bore no malice. He not only forgave, but 
forgot — or pretended to forget, which came 
to the same thing — that any differences had 
arisen. They were all there to put out 
the fire. No one had thrown any torch. 
The wretched man (meaning Desmond) 
must have fired the place by accident in 
his endeavor to escape, or — here the 
speaker turned his eyes tow r ards Heaven, 
clasped his hands, and sighed. 

Wizard or no wizard, you could not 
burn a man’s house over his head, even in 
those good old times, for nothing. Report 
ran that there were tw r odead bodies under 
that black and smoking pile, and Master 
Coroner was at work to find them. 

Master Coroner was a much greater 
man in the good old times than he is now. 
He was not a respectable apothecary, or a 
second-class attorney, but one of the 
highest dignitaries in the county. He did 
not hold his court in the parlor of the 
“Cat and Bagpipes,” assisted* by a jury, 
which, affected by the associations of the 
spot, gave the characteristics of a free and 
easy to their proceedings, and shout 
“ hear, hear,” when he sums up to their 


satisfaction. Master Coroner of the old 
sort ran no risk of being bullied over his 
accounts by a court of quarter sessions, 
because he had no accounts to render. 
He rode to his quest with a dozen men at 
arms at his back, and his word was law. 
When Shakespeare makes his second 
grave-digger in “Hamlet” ask, “Is that 
law?” and the first replies, “ Aye, marry! 
Crowner’s quest law,” no sneer is intended 
as I read the text. On the contrary. 
“ Crowner’s quest law ” was not to be 
trifled with in the good old times. 

Master Coroner satisfied himself that 
Desmond and Martha Denys were in the 
old brewhouse when it was assailed by the 
mob, and there being nothing to show 
that they got out, set his men at work to 
find their bodies. Thus far he acted 
wisely and well; but he made a serious 
mistake when, misled by Master Willford’s 
supposed interposition in the interests of 
law and order, he appointed him to direct 
the search. 

He commenced his operations exactly 
over the spot where Desmond had opened 
the casket. This was also where the side 
wall had fallen in and smothered the 
flames. As long as the laborers worked, 
he watched. He never left them a moment. 
Whenever a half-charred beam was re- 
moved, he was the first to examine the 
spot uncovered. Whenever a spade struck 
against any hard substance, he would 
thrust down his hand to find out what it 
was. He showed so much care and dili- 
gence the first two days, that Master 
Coroner left the business entirely in his 
charge. 

Still, I say that Master Coroner made a 
mistake. Had there been a dozen dead 
bodies under those ruins, not one of them 
would have been found — by the workmen, 
at least. Without a body, there could not 
be an inquest; without an inquest, there 
could be no investigation into Desmond’s 
affairs. He was the last of his race — so 
far as was known in Manchester. He had 
no kith or kin to ask what property he 
left. His estates would revert to the 
crown — or might he taken possession of by 
any one who was clever enough to find out 
where they were f and hold his tongue / But 


A FAMILY TREE. 


71 


if a body were found and an inquisition 
held, everybody would know as much as 
Stephen Willford. 

This careful seareher was the first to 
arrive in the morning, the last to leave at 
night. He took a look around before the 
others arrived and after they left. He 
locked the yard and house doors, and car- 
ried the key in his belt. The house was 
deserted, and no one could get into the 
yard without his permission — at least, so 
he thought. 

But every night, when all was still and 
dark, two men and a woman appeared, as 
though by magic, in that corner of the 
burned building where the walls were still 
standing. They could not work openly 
without being discovered, so they began to 
drive a sort of tunnel through the debris, 
which would lead them straight to where 
the forge had stood. Slowly and silently 
they worked; and when daybreak was 
near they hid the mouth of their shaft 
with rubbish, and disappeared as suddenly 
as they had come. 

This went on for about a week; Master 
Willford clearing away the ruins by day, 
the others undermining them by night. 
Sooner or later, if they both went on in 
the directions they had taken, they would 
meet. On the eighth night only a yard or 
two separated them. A few vigorous 
blows of the pick by the recognized labor- 
ers would disclose the tunnel of the night- 
workers! These blows were not to be 
given. 

That very night something compact and 
heavy, that was not a stone or a lump of 
bricks, was passed through the tunnel and 
carried off by one of the men, accompanied 
by the woman. The other man went back 
to the end of the shaft, and scattered the 
contents of two large flasks he had brought 
with him upon the, half-burned ruins on 
either side. 

When Master Willford arrived in the 
morning, he was surprised to see small 
whiffs of smoke curling up here and there 
from the ruins. He noticed also that the 
latter were unusually hot. He and his 
workers had now got dowm to things which 
were almost untouched by the fire, though 
crushed by the falling roof. Supposing 


that some relics of heat were still smoul- 
dering below, he caused water to be poured 
over the spot from which the smoke 
issued. This only increased it. He walk- 
ed round to the far end to see if there were 
any heat there, and in his absence some 
of the laborers dragged out a larger rafter, 
with the object of giving better play to 
their w r ater. 

No sooner had they done so than a col- 
umn of flame sprang forth. The most 
furious bursts of the original conflagration 
were pale and tame' in comparison w ith 
this. It seemed to set the very stones on 
fire. It spread with amazing rapidity. In 
less time, almost, than one takes to write 
the words, it formed there new craters. 
It shed a thick black smoke, which choked 
and blinded the astonished workmen, and 
drove them back far into the street. It 
did not flare and crackle like ordinary fire, 
but consumed all before it silently, as a 
piece of silver-paper is burned up ! 

Weeks afterwards, when wdiat w r as left 
of the ruins could be examined, brick and 
stone w r ere found melted, and glued to- 
gether in fantastic vitreous lumps by the 
intensity of its heat. Nothing that fire 
could destroy escaped it. The great ma- 
chine lay a shapeless mass of metal ! Any 
human body would, of course, have been 
utterly encindered, and so the search for 
Desmond’s remains and those of his house- 
keeper were abandoned. 

Ignorance, and its ally — Superstition — 
accounted for this new wonder in their own 
style. It w f as the Demon’s work! There 
were secrets buried under those ruins 
which he did not wish to see the light. 
That was no common fire — it w r as the 
horrid element of the bottomless pit, spe- 
cially exported for the purpose! And 
they were partly right; it was not com- 
mon fire, but it did not come from the 
store indicated, nor had the arch-fiend any 
direct hand in its application. It was 
simply Greek fire, which Hugh Desmond 
had learned to prepare. 

Why did he thus destroy the ruins of 
his laboratory? He had two reasons: he 
wished to stop the search for his (sup- 
: posed) dead body, and to conceal his re- 
moval of the casket. He was content that 


72 


A FAMILY TREE. 


all his enemies — and especially Yincenti 
de la Torre — should consider him as dead. 
If the search continued, and no remains 
were found, a doubt, which might put that 
person on his guard, would arise, and be 
strengthened by the discovery of the tun- 
nel, which he had no time to fill up. He 
remained concealed at Prestwick (where 
he met Gregory by previous arrangement) 
the night of the attack upon his house. 
Found out through the smith where his 
mother was concealed ; joined her in dis- 
guise; and when the turmoil and excite- 
ment over the second fire was at its height, 
these three slipped quietly out of the town 
unchallenged and unrecognized. 

And they took the casket with them ! 

Witch-finding, when conducted upon 
abstract principles, was poor work. There 
was nothing — not even glory — to be got 
out of roasting a lot of miserable old wo- 
men in those good old days. So much the 
worse for the abstract principles, thought 
the more advanced professors of this art 
and mystery, amongst whom Master Will- 
ford was a shining light. The fear and 
horror caused by roastings, for which cer- 
tain ignorant, but honest fanatics were 
responsible, placed a weapon in the hands 
of their unprincipled successors, w’hich 
they used with considerable profit. These 
practitioners had to roast a witch or two 
occasionally, just to keep up the excite- 
ment; but their grand coups were directed 
against well-to-do middle-class people, who 
would either fly from an accusation of 
witchcraft, or pay black mail to suppress 
it. If they fled, they left pickings; if they 
remained, they were plucked ! If one took 
heart of grace and resisted, she was tried 
pour encourager les autres. We have seen 
what ‘‘trying” (in this connection) meant 
in the case of Martha Denys. It was only 
one degree removed from execution. Con- 
ducted upon these principles, witch-finding 
became a profitable business. 

The feelings which Master Willford en- 
tertained towards Hugh Desmond had 
changed materially since the day when 
that malicious bodkin-thrust was given. 
Then he only hated him for the pain and 
disappointment he had caused. Later on, 
he perceived in him an opponent whose 


presence would be a perpetual stumbling- 
block in his path ; and lastly, he saw how 
he might obtain revenge, immunity, and 
wealth, all by one blow! This was when, 
crouching under the window, he over- 
heard the conversation between Desmond 
and Dame Martha. He determined to 
hound the already excited populace upon 
them, and to seize for himself the casket 
and the deeds it contained. The mob, as 
we know, were a little too quick for him, 
and spoiled his plan by firing the brew'- 
house. 

Well, obtaining the casket was one 
means towards his end. This had failed, 
but there were others as yet untried. He 
worked them out in his cold, cruel mind, 
as though they were sums in arithmetic. 

Desmond was dead— that was his start- 
ing point— and had left considerable wealth 
somewhere. For whom? For a child 
which had remained for years unrecog- 
nised. Was that child likely to be aware 
of its rights? Who was there to uphold 
her in claiming them ? Four persons only, 
according to her father’s statement. One 
who would shortly leave the country, and 
upon whom he seemed to place little re- 
liance; Dame Martha; her son, the smith; 
and a wounded servant, not named. Every- 
thing went to show Desmond had chosen 
the dame as his confidante in chief, and 
intended that the others should be inform- 
ed and instructed through her. She had 
perished, and her vow ended with her life. 
Who could prove now that Desmond had 
ever been married ? The whole course of 
his life, since his return to England, was, 
practically, a denial of the fact. A man in 
his position — argued Master Willford — 
does not hide away his wife, whatever he 
might do with one who stood in another 
relationship. 

This point could be dealt with where it 
arose. At present there was no occasion 
to raise it. ‘By way of putting out a feeler 
to discover the direction and force of pos- 
sible opposition, the w'itchfinder obtained 
an order to take possession of the house 
and premises of the deceased, Hugh Des- 
mond, at Manchester, for the benefit of 
whomsoever it might con'cern — and it ap- 
peared to concern no one. 


A FAMILY TREE 


73 


Then he advanced a step, and took out 
administration to all the estate and effects 
of Hugh Desmond, lately departed this 
life. 

In doing this he invited opposition, but 
none appeared. But where was all that 
estate; and what were those effects? Was 
he after all to get nothing for his trouble 
beyond the half-burned, wholly-plundered 
house at Manchester? It appeared so. 
As he turned the matter over and over 
in his active mind, he became more and 
more convinced that the delicate-handed 
master-mariner from the Netherlands — 
Signor Porras — was in some way mixed 
up with Desmond’s affairs, and knew his 
secrets. Why, otherwise, should he have 
troubled himself to get up that charge 
against Gregory? Why have taken such 
personal interest in the search for which it 
was made the excuse ? Why have left the 
town immediately afterwards ? Again, 
what were the errands of those messen- 
gers? of the rider from London looking 
for a foreigner, supposed to be with Signor 
Porras, and of the other (on Desmond's 
own horse), who came after him and re- 
lieved him of his mission ? Signor Porras 
and his man had gone away for a week 
(as they had told their host), leaving their 
baggage behind them; and they had not 
been heard of for six! during which time 
Desmond’s wife — or at any rate the mother 
of his children — had been killed and his 
boy carried off! All this taken together 
gave Master Willford hopes that he should 
yet obtain the clue he sought. And he 
was not mistaken. 

One evening Senor Porras rode up to 
the “Golden Boar” alone, much changed 
in appearance. His once grave, cold man- 
ner had left him. He had become restless, 
and assumed a levity inconsistent with 
his character, and strangely at variance 
with the haggard expression of his face, 
and the hunted look in his eyes. When 
told what had befallen Hugh Desmond, 
great was his horror and surprise! — too 
great, thought Master Willford ; for this 
crafty one had seen him halt at the scene 
of the late catastrophe, and gaze wistfully 
at the ruins as he came into the town. 

“ He knew all,” mused the witch finder, 


“before he was told about it here. He 
would not have come if he had not known 
it.” 

He had been ill — so he said — with fever 
and prayed Master Willford to let him 
share his room, for he knew not at what 
moment his sickness might return. He 
pressed this request with childish per- 
sistence; repeating it frequently after it 
had been granted. Sometimes when Des- 
mond was mentioned he would start up 
w r ith a moan or a cry, and adjure his com- 
panion for God’s sake not to speak of him, 
and yet ten minutes afterwards he w r ould 
himself return to the subject. 

At night he had frightful dreams, and 
muttered in his sleep. It may be that this 
broke Master Willford’s rest — it may bo 
that he did not seek slumber. He did not 
complain, and as soon as the muttering 
began he was leaning over the pillow of 
the dream-haunted man, catching every 
word that escaped his lips. 

Thus passed four days. On the morn- 
ing of the fifth Signor Porras bade his host 
farewell. Master Willford also took leave 
of his friends. It would be some months 
— he said— before he should see them again. 

His friend was going to London, and as 
his own business lay in that direction, 
they would ride together. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

THE KING’S BUSINESS. 

Cosmo de Ribolini, Dame Martha, 
and her son were the only three persons 
who knew that the burning ruins of his 
laboratory were not Hugh Desmond’s 
grave. Dick Earle returned to London 
the day after Sweetheart’s funeral. Tom 
Stevens was too ill with his wounds, and 
little Maria too young to be told anything. 
It suited Desmond that the news of his 
death should be spread abroad. Where 
he was unknown he became his own bio- 
grapher, and told the strange story in 
many a town which he visited in his re- 
newed chase of the assassins. He made 
what huntsmen call “ a cat.” Manchester, 
Shrewsbury, Coventry, Derby, and inter- 
vening points, formed his first circle. 


74 


A FAMILY TREE. 


Then deeming that they would seek a sea- 
port, he tried Hull and Bristol— all in vain. 
Cosmo went with him, and their common 
grief ripened respect and pity into a warm 
friendship. 

“ Trust me, brother mine,” said the 
latter one day, “ that my first counsel to 
thee was wise. They know not thy coun- 
try well enough to take cross roads, or hie 
them to a small port. They have made 
for London, and to London we should go.” 

“ I am known there,” Desmond replied. 

“ To how many? — A score, maybe. 
Thou needst not go in their way. There 
be many places, I’ll warrant in that great 
city, where none would imagine or busy 
themselves about thee. I have thy good 
friend Master Earle.” 

“ He must not know.” 

“ Is he not trustworthy ? ” 

“ Aye, true as steel, but there are those 
about him who might, unwittingly, betray 
me. The fewer there are in a secret the 
more likely is it to be kept.” 

“ True ; but the more there are in a 
secret the better chance of success. Your 
friend, the goldsmith, can help me to find 
de la Torre, without being told anything 
about thee.” 

“ Thou art right,” Desmond replied, 
after a pause; “ we will go to London, and 
if we fail there ” 

“ I will tell thee,” interrupted Cosmo. 

“ If we fail in London we will go straight 
to Italy. The ‘ Yenno 9 is at my orders; he 
will hunt these murderers in their own 
country, where they are known, and to 
which, believe me, they are sure to return 
as quickly as they can.” 

“ But my boy— my lost boy — ? ” moaned 
Desmond. 

“ Thou shalt seek him wheresoever thou 
wilt. The path to him is through them ; 
but in the meantime thou must provide a 
home for his sister.” 

“ She is safe with Dame Martha.” 

“ Safe may be,” said Cosmo, a little 
loftily; “ but the blood which runs in her 
veins demands gentler nurture than the 
good dame can afford. The lady, who 
will soon be my wife, will take charge of 
her for my sake, and quickly learn to love 
her for her own.” 


Desmond pressed his hand in silence. 

“ Besides,” continued Cosmo, “ an thou 
didst leave her here thou wouldst be in 
daily fear — I know thee — for her safety.” 

She is all left to me — God help me ! ” 

Cosmo had no comfort to give him. He 
had no doubt but that little Hugh was 
with his mother. The child would have 
embarrassed her murderers in their flight. 
His presence would have served to iden- 
tify them. During the search already 
made, Desmond had heard of many passing 
strangers, amongst whom might have been 
those he sought, but in no case was there 
a child with them. 

“ There will be an outcry when I marry,” 
said Cosino, to change the subject, “ so I 
shall bring my bride to England for a 
while. It likes me much, this England, 
brother mine. By that time thou wilt 
have come to life again.” 

“For what?” he asked, sadly. “To 
drag about for a few years longer this poor 
body, which is but the coffin of a dead 
heart, and dead hopes.” 

To London they went. Desmond hid 
himself under an assumed name in the 
Borough of Southwark, and Cosmo took 
up his quarters once more with Martin 
Earle, whom he found in great grief at the 
loss of his friend, and indignation at the 
charges made against him. For you may 
be sure that the story of his end had not 
lost any of its wonders on the way. ’Pren- 
tice Dick was heartily sorry too, and had 
other troubles on his mind which he took 
the first opportunity of imparting to Cosmo. 

“ Thou hast told mine uncle nothing of 
his wife ” (like most people who speak of 
the newly dead, he did not mention 
names), he said, half as a question and 
half as a reproach. 

“ Did w r e not both promise him solemnly 
to keep silence on that subject?” 

“ Aye, we did; but he is dead now.” 

“ The more reason that we should keep 
our vow.” 

“ But the child, signor— the child ? ” 

“Is in my charge; let that suffice, 
Master Earle.” 

“ Then it behoves thee to look to her 
interest.” 

“ Most certainly I shall.” 


/ 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“ We — I mean mine uncle — has a large 
Bum in his hands which belonged to her 
father, and should now be hers,” said Dick, 
after a pause. 

“ Art sure ? ” 

“ Certain. Some of it is placed out at 
usance ; some is in our coffers.” 

“ Dost know the amount? ” 

“Some ten thousand pounds.” 

“ Well, let it remain where it is. It 
could not be in better keeping, good Dick. 
Let it remain where it is, for the present 
at least. And mark me ! As thou loved 
my brother, keep his secret, until ” 

“ Go on : until ? ” 

“ Until we have found that black-hearted 
villain who slew my sister, and stole her 
boy,” Cosmo replied, quickly. “ That is 
what I meant. Then little Maria may 
claim her own in safety.” 

“I see; thou art right, Signor,” mused 
Dick. 

And so the subject ended for that day. 

It came up again before the week was 
out. A stranger called upon the gold- 
smith, and had a long private conference 
with him, armed with certain papers which 
authorized him to take possession, in the 
name of the Crown, of all the estate and 
effects of Hugh Desmond, who had died 
intestate, and leaving no kin to inherit his 
wealth. This stranger made no definite 
claim upon Martin Earle. He came for 
information, having heard that the gold- 
smith had at one time been the deceased 
man’s agent, and, as such, might know 
where he had disposed of his property. 
Would he (Earle) help him? His name 
was Willford — Stephen Willford a humble 
servant of my lord the Bishop of Chester — 
to discharge his trust?” 

The goldsmith was man of business 
enough to see that the documents pro- 
duced were in order, and man of the world 
enough not to say so. He replied that 
Master Desmond had indeed consulted 
him as to the placing of his monies, and 
perhaps he might be able to find out 
where they had been invested ; but Master 
Willford would excuse his saying that he 
must have some legal advice before he took 
an active part in such investigations. 

Master Willford was not the least of- 


75 

fended. They would go together to some 
man of law, at the goldsmith’s own con- 
venience. There was no hurry, only — 
he added with some emphasis — as it was 
the king’s business there must be no un- 
necessary delay. 

Master Willford stated his case w T ell — not 
a word too much, not an expression or a 
tone which could suggest any personal 
interest in it. And his finale was a 
clincher. It was dangerous to hinder the 
king’s business in those good old days. 
There was only one thing not quite clear 
to Martin Earle, and this was — how’ did 
his visitor find out that he had had busi- 
ness transactions with Hugh Desmond? 
He asked the question, and was told that 
the fact had been gleaned from some books 
and papers saved from the fire. Now w r e 
know that there was absolutely nothing 
saved from the fire; but you will remem- 
ber that good Signor Porras was busy with 
certain books and papers, whilst Master 
Constable was fussing about the old brew- 
house the day when perquisition was made 
for Marco’s purse. 

Master Willford took his departure, 
having arranged to call again that time on 
the morrow, and accompany Master Earle 
to the man of law who was to advise him ; 
and as soon as he was gone the goldsmith 
called Dick, and bade him make up a 
statement of Hugh Desmond’s account. 
Dick, having that conversation with Cosmo 
de Ribolini fresh in his mind, was some- 
what confused at this order, and asked, 
“ What for ? ” Whereupon his uncle, who 
was not in his usual good humor, bade him 
mind his own business, sharply. Dick 
swallowed the snub and set to work, but 
with an inw r ard resolve that his task should 
not be an easy, or at any rate a short one. 

Of cohrse he told Cosmo, and the two, 
putting this and that together, came 
readily to the conclusion that the stranger 
had something to do with it; and when 
Master Earle casually mentioned his late 
visitor’s name, the truth flashed upon 
them both. Willford, the witch-finder, 
Desmond’s enemy, the man who had stir- 
red up all Manchester against him; his 
murderer, in the belief of one of them, was 
seeking to gain possession of his estate ! 


76 


A FAMILY TREE 


What was to be done! Consult with 
Desmond? thought Cosmo. Most as- 
suredly that was the first thing. The 
result of such consultation would arrange 
the rest. But how was Dick, who thought 
him dead, to be put off? How was the 
goldsmith to be delayed? mused Dick. 
Master Willford might waive the necessity 
for a formal account. Martin Earle might 
take the preparation of one out of his 
’prentice’s hands and render it himself. 
“ He has it at his fingers’ ends,” moaned 
Dick ; “ he could do it in an hour.” Cosmo, 
utterly bewildered, mounted the high 
horse, and told the ’prentice to occupy 
himself with his own affairs. Dick, smart- 
ing under the former application of this 
formula, fired up and told him roundly 
that it was his own affair. His uncle and 
master was being imposed upon. 

“ Leave it all to me,” said the young 
noble, more haughtily than ever, “and 
meddle not with things which neither thy 
years or thy station permit thee to under- 
stand.” 

This was too much for Dick. 

“ Leave it all to thee ! ” he cried. “ That 
is what thou saidst to poor Master Des- 
mond, and a pretty evil thou didst bring 
upon him! But for thee and thy wise 
counsels his wife w r ould be alive and his 
boy safe. To the devil with thy family 
secrets, thy mysteries, and thy cut-throat 
Vendettas! I’ll none of them. Leave it 
all to thee, quotha! No, Signor: this is 
England, and a good merchant of London 
is not to be cozened, or a little maiden 
robbed of her rights, whilst an indifferent 
honest ’prentice is about to see justice 
done.” 

“ When thou hast recovered thy senses 
thou mayest ask my pardon for this inso- 
lence,” Cosmo replied loftily, taking up 
his hat and sword. “ For the present 
thine honesty will do well to ponder on the 
promise under which thy betters trusted 
thee.” 

Ten minutes afterwards he was sorry 
for having used this taunt. He could not 
but admire Dick's bull-dog character, and 
one shot which the ’prentice had fired in 
his anger went home. Desmond had 
never reproached him, but he had often 


reproached himself for over confidence in 
his own schemes. But for him Sweet- 
heart might indeed have been spared, and 
her child be safe. Dick’s words fell like a 
blow upon a bruise. Well, he would see 
Desmond; tell him what had happened, 
get his permission to undeceive the lad 
(and his uncle too, if need be), and then 
their quarrel could be easily made up. 
He took a wherry, crossed the Thames to 
the landing-place nearest to where Des- 
mond lodged, but found him not. He had 
been out all day, mayhap he would be 
back soon, said the drawer, mayhap not 
at all that day. He was very uncertain. 
Cosmo’s stock of English was too small for 
questioning, so he said he'd wait, and 
waited. 

Three hours passed, night came on, and 
no Desmond ! To go back and face Dick 
again, as unprepared as ever to answer 
him, was one evil— to remain where he 
was, unable to make himself understood 
with the risk of being turned out into the 
street if Desmond did not appear; was 
another. Which was the least? Cosmo 
turned them over in his mind and chose 
the former. He had always come there by 
boat ; in a short time the watermen would 
cease to ply, and he had not the faintest 
idea how to find his way home over the 
bridge. He could avoid Dick that night, 
and be off again after Desmond the first 
thing in the morning. 

This resolution was taken just in time. 
As he gained the river-side he met the last 
waterman marching homeward with his 
sculls on his shoulder, and had to give 
him about five times his proper fare to in- 
duce him to make the trip. 

Father Thames w T as clean in those days. 
He had forget-me-nots at Wapping and 
water lilies off the Isle of Dogs. His re- 
ceding tides left gold bright sand and 
glittering pebbles, where they now deposit 
black mud, old shoes, and the surplus 
feline population. Salmon was caught at 
Isle worth, and the good folks of Green- 
wich could drink of his waters. But he 
was not doing much business then. Some 
twenty ships were anchored off the Tower 
— the largest barely of eighty tons; no 
! tall chimneys vomited smoke, sulphurous 


A FAMILY TREE. 


77 


acid and the bouquet of bone-crusliing. 
No line of light marked the profile of his 
shores. 

All was dark and silent as Cosmo took 
his seat in the wherry, and its unwilling 
rower shoved off into the stream. Three 
parts of the passage was quickly made, 
and then they got into trouble. A vessel 
was anchored right in their way. The 
rower tried to pass her by the bow, but he 
miscalculated his distance in the dark, or 
the tide was too strong for him, or he was 
too tired after a long day’s work to cope 
with it. He fouled her chain, and snap 
went his right hand scull. 

In an instant the stream whisked the 
wherry round, and sent her stern foremost 
under the vessel’s side. 

“ Hold on ! ” shouted the waterman. 
“ Hold on for your life.” 

Cosmo obeyed mechanically; clutched a 
dead eye of the main rigging, and brought 
the boat up. Scarcely had he done so 
when another order came ; from the ship 
this time. 

“ Cast off you ! Cast off or I’ll sink 

ye.” 

“ Hold on ! ” again shouted the water- 
man to Cosmo. 

“ Why comrade! ” he continued to the 
man who now appeared on the bulwark 
with a huge lump of ballast, with which to 
carry out his threat, in his hand. “D’ye 
take us for thieves? ” 

“ You’ve no business here, shove off.” 

“Yes, and get swamped at the bridge! 
I’ve broken one of my sculls — that’s all.” 

The man lowered his missile, somewhat 
mollified and the other went on : — 

“ Thou dost keep a good watch, partner.” 
This was intended as a compliment, but 
only produced a surly 

“ What is that to thee ! Art going ? ” 

“ Aye, an thou wilt lend me a scull. 
I’m a licensed waterman, John Trumble, 
at your service. Ell bring it back in the 
morning.” 

“ I’ve none to lend.” 

“ Then sell us one, the gentleman will 
pay.” 

The last four words had become familiar 
to Cosmo, who pricked up his ears and 
added. 


“ Oh ya— as, I pay — good.” 

“A foreigner!” cried the man of the 
ship with a start as Cosmo spoke, and 
again lifting his chunk of ballast when the 
latter rose. “ Keep back ! Make one step 
to get on board and by God I’ll brain 
thee.” 

He was diverted by a hand laid on him 
from behind, and a voice which whispered 
“ What is this? ” 

“ A shore boat,” he replied in the same 
tone. “ Pretend they’ve broken a scull, 
and want to get on board. Hark’ye, Mas- 
ter Willford — one of them’s a foreigner.” 

“ Ha! let me speak to them.” 

“ Be careful. If he should hear! ” 

“ Hold thy tongue. It is thou who will 
rouse him with thy loud talk and cursing. 
Now, sir,” he said to Cosmo taking the 
other’s place “ what would’st thou?” 

“ A scull an’t please ye,” replied the 
waterman. “ The gentleman don’t under- 
stand much English. I broke one of mine 
on your chain and this tide would have 
me under the bridge in a jiffey, if I don’t 
get another.” 

“Give him one, and let them go,” said 
Willford, and it was handed over the side. 

“I shall know the ship again I daresay,” 
quoth the waterman, “ but you’d better 
give me her name.” 

“ It matters not,” Willford replied. 

“ Well then thine, or the captain’s?” 

“ Give thee good night.” 

“ Blame me not if thou seest no more of 
thy scull then,” said Trumble. 

“Keep it and welcome, good fellow; 
only trouble me no more, it is late and I 
am weary.” 

As they passed under the stern they 
heard a cry from the cabin, and the sound 
of a scuffle. Then all w’as silent again. 

“ There’s something wrong over there,” 
said John Trumble with a jerk of his head 
towards the ship, as Cosmo jumped ashore, 
“ but it’s nobusiness of mine.” 

“ How is she call? ” asked Cosmo in his 
broken English. 

“I not know’,” the waterman replied, 
thinking to be best understood by adopting 
the same patois. 

“ I will pay for him,” pointing to the odd 
scull. 


78 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“ They no want pay. They give — 
Master Willford, give.” 

“Master Willford!” cried Cosmo in sur- 
prise. 

“ Aye, that’s what the other fellow called 
him. I heard he’s master there, and they’re 
up to no good. He was too civil by half, 
and his man too saucy, to be honest. Hon- 
est folks don't give away things to strangers 
for nothing. They don’t want me to go 
back with this ’ere — that’s it.” 

Cosmo made his way back to Lombard 
Street, and found lights burning in the 
counting-house, though it was long after 
the usual time for closing that department. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A MAN WHO SHRIEKS AT NIGHT. 

Lights were burning in the counting- 
house, and Dick and his uncle were there, 
not busy, but plunged in thought. 

To explain this phenomena, we must go 
back to the time when Cosmo left. He 
had hardly gained the street when the 
goldsmith bustled in, and wanted to know 
what was the matter. 

“ Nothing,” said Dick. 

“ Nothing ! Dost shout like that for noth- 
ing? Host look as red as an angry turkey- 
cock for nothing? Thou hast been quar- 
relling with my guest: thou hast offended 
him.” 

“ Mayhap.” 

“Mayhap! Marry-come-up! Mayhap! 
How darest thou? ” 

“ Uncle,” pleaded Dick, “ bear with me. 
If thou didst know all, thou wouldst not 
blame me.” 

Dick was not red-faced now, and there 
was a tremor in his voice which disarmed 
Martin Earle. 

“ Out with it, my boy,” he said, kindly, 
laying his hand upon Dick’s shoulder. “I 
have never been hard with thee, and shall 
not begin now. I am thine uncle and 
master; I can be more — make me thy 
friend. Is ’t money or a woman, Dick ? ” 

“ Both ; but not in the way thou dost 
hint. That man who was here with thee 
this morning is at the root of it.” 

“ Master Willford ! Dost know him ? ” 


“Aye; that is, I know of him. Uncle, 
he is one of Hugh Desmond’s worst ene- 
mies. It was he who had him accused of 
witchcraft.” And having thus broken the 
ice, Dick went on to tell all he had heard 
from Desmond himself and from Gregory 
Denys on the subject. 

“ A knave — a very knave,” mused the 
goldsmith, half to himself; “but he has 
warrant for what he seeks.” 

“ Hugh Desmond’s inheritance? ” 

“ Who told thee that? ” 

“ I did but guess.” 

“ Thou art a shrewd guesser. Thou art 
right. His possessions revert to the crown, 
as he left no kin.” 

“ I am not sure of that,” said Dick. 

“ Wiser heads than thine are; mine for 
one. I have read the sworn depositions,” 
said the goldsmith. 

“ That Master Desmond left no kin ? 
Wilt say who made them?” asked the 
’prentice, eagerly. 

“ To begin with, four of his father’s 
oldest friends, who ” 

“ Pshaw ! What know they of him ? ” 

Dick interrupted. 

“ Patience, malapert ! When the last of 
his brothers died, and he was no one knew 
where, those friends often heard the old 
man say that he was the last of his blood 
— that there was no Desmond left. Now 
dost understand? When the wanderer 
returned, they also heard his father beg 
him to marry, that he might see a grand- 
child before he died. He never did. Hugh 
would not wed. All this is proved, and 
Master Willford is appointed the king’s 
receiver. But what has this to do with 
the Viscount and thee?” 

“ Uncle, we had strange adventures upon 
our travels. Thou knowest that we en- 
countered Master Desmond. We found 
him where none who knew him thought 
he dwelt. We saw what he would fain 
have hidden from all the world, but could 
not from us.” 

“ Methinks I understand,” said Martin 
Earle, shading his eyes with his hand. 
“ Poor woman ! poor woman ! Were there 
children, Dick? ” 

“ Two.” 

“ Young children?” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


79 


“ Almost babies.” 

44 Poor little things! Well, they have 
their mother,” sighed Earle. 

“ She is dead.” 

44 Dick! Oh! Dick, why didst not tell 
me this before?” cried the goldsmith. 
44 Who has cared for them ? ” 

44 They are in no present need,” Dick 
replied ; 44 but thou wilt see her— thou wilt 
see them righted? ” 

44 They are sinless, but must bear the 
consequence of their parents’ sin,” said 
Earle, sadly. 44 In the eye of the law they 
have no father.” 

“ But their inheritance ” 

44 My good Dick, they have none. But 
again I ask, why shouldst thou and Signor 
de Ribolini quarrel over this? ” 

“Ask him” said Dick. 44 Nay ” (seeing 
that his uncle was nettled at this appar- 
ently disrespectful reply), 44 1 would an- 
swer thee if I might. He, too, is pledged 
to secrecy, but less bounden than I am, 

because Oh Lord ! oh Lord ! I cannot 

explain without telling the whole story. 
Good uncle, ask him to unloose my 
tongue.” 

44 Why, how can I?” 

44 Let me ask him for you. If he will, 
you shall know all.” 

44 And if he refuse?” 

“ I’ll forswear myself,” groaned the ’pren- 
tice ; 44 it ’s the lesser of two evils, and the 
only way out of the maze.” 

I have said that Cosmo de Ribolini was 
sorry for having spoken so sharply to Dick, 
because he felt that be was right. Dick, 
on his side, had no regrets for the strong 
language he had used, and looked forward 
with pleasure to the further opportunity 
which was now presented for giving the 
Italian another piece of his mind; because 
he persuaded himself that Cosmo was not 
true. 

Now that Sweetheart and her husband 
were no more, he wanted to hush up their 
marriage. Perhaps he would take care of 
little Maria, adopt her, or something of the 
sort; but this was not enough for Dick. 
He was young, you see, and very British. 
The idea that the child of an Englishman 
should be deprived of her name, and a slur 
thrown upon her parents ; to pander to the 


pride of a foreigner, made his blood boil. 
Young British blood does not boil nowa- 
days — it isn’t good form — and in this re- 
spect, 1 fancy, the good old times had the 
best of it. 

So they waited up for Cosmo, and the 
goldsmith had begun to fear that he had 
been driven from the house by Dick’s rude- 
ness, when in he came. 

Dick had carefully prepared what he 
had to say, and having risen and made a 
profound obeisance, intended to be very 
cutting, began : — 

44 Most excellent signor, my uncle here 
wishes to address thee, and has perforce to 
do so through my interpretation. Have 
the condescension, therefore, to consider 
that he is speaking, and not I; and to 
reply to him, and not to me. Without 
understanding what passed between us 
this morning, thy sudden departure and 
the sound of my voice led him to believe 
that we had been in dispute. Will it please 
your excellency to inform him what was 
the cause of our difference.” 

44 Let it pass, good Dick,” whispered 
Cosmo. 44 Let it pass. We were both 
wrong, and both mean well.” 

44 1 will answer for one,” Dick replied 
stiffly. 

“In the name of God! w 7 hy take this 
tone with me,” muttered the other. 44 Thou 
wilt repent this.” 

44 Threats are no use, Signor de Ribo- 
lini.” 

44 What does he say ? ” demanded the 
goldsmith. 

44 1 mean no threat,” replied Cosmo. 
44 You will repent this, because it brings 
into peril the interest of those whom in 
thine honest, but wrong-headed way, thou 
wouldst serve.” 

44 Will he explain ? ” asked Martin Earle, 
getting impatient. 

“ What says thy uncle ? ” demanded 
Cosmo. 

Poor Dick! Like M. Jourdin’s house- 
maid, Cosmo fenced contrary to all rule. 
He ought to have fallen back upon his 
dignity, and haughtily declined to be cate- 
chised. Then Dick would have said, 

4 ‘ I consider, most excellent, that Master 
Desmond's death, and your refusal to do 


80 


A FAMILY TREE 


justice to his children and his memory, 
releases me from the promise I made. 

Therefore ” and he would have told all 

he knew. 

Cosmo had no right to come in with his 
“ Let it pass, good Dick.” Good Dick! 
indeed, and he as mad with him as one 
man can be with another! 

Thus thrown out, perplexed, angry with 
himself for being angry, assailed by a cross 
fire of, “What does' he say?” alternately 
in English and Italian, plucked at one 
sleeve by his impatient uncle to “ answer 
this directly,” and at the other by Cosmo 
to “ explain for the love of God,” he pre- 
sented anything but a spectacle of dignity. 
Indeed, the situation was fast drifting into 
the ludicrous— as a situation will where 
of three actors, one is spluttering with 
rage, one struck stupid, and one does not 
understand what it all means. 

From such a climax Cosmo rescued it. 

“ This must end,” he said firmly. “ Tell 
thine uncle, and mark well thyself the 
last words I shall speak to-night on this 
subject. Give me till noon to-morrow, 
and I will fully satisfy both. I will answer 
him then, and I will explain to thee why I 
may not do so now. I ask this for Des- 
mond’s sake— not for any purpose of mine 
own.” 

“ But Willford will be here at noon,” ob- 
served the goldsmith, when the ultimatum 
had been translated. 

“ Whatever happens, that man must 
be delayed,” said Cosmo. “ I saw him 
to-night.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Dick, getting suspicious, 
“ where ? ” 

“ On board a ship in the river.” 

“ Why, he lodges at the ‘ Bell/ in 
’Cheap ! ” 

“ Art sure ? ” 

“ So mine uncle told me.” 

“ Hast thine uncle seen him there? ” 

Referred to Martin Earle, the reply to 
this question was in the negative, and 
then came the inevitable “ What does he 
say ? ” which had better be left out for the 
future, and the rest of this conversation 
given as it was understood. 

“ I regret,” Cosmo said, “ that this man 
must be delayed. There is something 


dark going on in the ship he appears to 
command. Why should Master Willford 
of Manchester— the King’s receiver— who 
gives us his abiding place a hostel in this 
city, be passing the night on board a ship 
in the river? ” 

“ Did he recognize thee?” 

“ No, for we never met before.” 

“ How, then, cans.t say he is the man?” 

“ He was addressed as Master Willford.” 

“ ’Tis not an uncommon name.” 

“ No ? Well, we can quickly see if there 
be two of them. Wilt help me ? ” 

“ Willingly,” replied Dick. “ What shall 
Ido?” 

“ Come with me to the 1 Bell,’ and ask if 
he be there.” 

“ ’Tis late.” 

“ The better for that. An he really 
lodge there, he will surely be in at this 
hour.” 

“ Right. And if he be, we can state as 
an excuse for our visit, that mine uncle 
would fain postpone their meeting for a 
day.” 

“ I don’t see what you gain by that,” 
said the goldsmith. 

Cosmo mused for a while, and then an- 
swered — 

“ I can tell thee this much, good Master 
Earle: not one stiver that ever belonged 
to Desmond should pass into this man’s 
hands, and we must lose no chance for 
finding some weapon to fight him withal 
— delay, if he be not what I think, or fear 
of exposure if there exist a mystery on 
board that ship with which we can con- 
nect him.” 

The “ Bell ” in ’Cheap was kept by a 
buxom widow named Franklin, with whom 
handsome Dick was a favorite. Late as 
it was, she not only excused the invasion, 
but chided him for not having been to see 
her lately, brought out a flask of her best 
wine, and made her visitors welcome. 

“ Is Master Willford in ? ” she echoed, 
as Dick, having felt his way to his point, 
put the enquiry — “Ah ! I thought thou 
didst not come for nothing.” 

“ I came to show my friend here the 
handsomest hostess in London,” said the 
gallant ’prentice; “ but may not one ask a 
question ? ” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“ Go to, flatterer! No; Master Willford 
takes a meal here now and again, but has 
not slept in the house since he carried the 
poor gentleman away.” 

“ What poor gentleman ? ” 

“ Why, his friend who is ” — here she 
tapped her forehead. 

“ I see,” said Dick : “ out of his mind. 
Whither did he take him ? ” 

“ Nay, I know not. ’Tis no business of 
mine, and I was glad enough to be rid of 
him.” 

“ ’Tis not pleasant to have a madman in 
the house.” 

“ Oh, poor creature! he gave little trou- 
ble. Shrieked out in his sleep sometimes, 
but in the main was quiet enough. I was 
right sorry for him. I hope Master Will- 
ford will send him back to his friends.” 

“ At Manchester? ” 

“ Lord, Dick ! what would be the good of 
that ? He comes all the way from Italy.” 

“ From Italy!” 

“ Aye ; his companion wanted to make 
him out a Spaniard, but I know better.” 

“ How came they together? ” 

“ Master Willford met him on the road, 
and took charge of him in charity. He 
would not admit that he was crazy at first, 
and — Lord ! Lord ! what a turn it gave me 
when I found it out.” 

“ By his shrieking a-nights ? ” asked Dick. 

“ No. We were talking together in this 
very room one night. He speaks English 
well for a foreigner, and seemed quite 
rational till the clock struck eight. All of 
a sudden his face changed: ‘She’s com- 
ing!’ he said — looking, oh! so wild; and 
then he began to talk in his own language 
to nothing that I could see ; but I tell thee 
it made my blood run cold ! ” 

“ Was Willford present?” 

“No; and when he did come, I gave 
him my mind pretty freely — bringing a 
madman like that into an honest woman’s 
house! I didn’t know he was harmless 
then, and was for throwing them out 
presently.” 

“ But you didn’t.” 

“ Willford spoke me fair, and overper- 
suaded me; promised to take him away as 
soon as a place of disposal could be found: 
and they left last Monday.” 

6 


81 

“ A strange story ! ” said Dick. “ May 
I tell it to my friend ? ” 

She assented, and it was told. Then 
that shriek and scuffle on board the ship 
flashed back upon Cosmo’s mind. The 
madman was there, and Willford was his 
keeper. Who was he? An Italian, under 
the delusion that he was haunted by the 
spirit of a woman who appeared at eight 
o’clock at night. Why at eight o'clock? 

“ When he spoke, you say, so wildly,” 
asked Dick, after a conference aside with 
Cosmo, “ did he call the woman he thought 
he saw by any name?” 

“ None that I could catch,” replied Mis- 
tress Franklin. “ He spoke in Italian.” 

“ How canst tell, not understanding 
him? Might it not have been Spanish? 
Willford said that he was a Spaniard.” 

“ And I tell thee I know better, Master 
Dick.” 

“ What difference could it make? Why 
should he deceive thee?” persisted the 
’prentice. 

“I know not: there is some mystery 
about him.” 

“ There is indeed. If thou would’st but 
say frankly why thou dost persist he is 
from Italy.” 

“Bless the boy! Because he told me 
so.” 

“ In his sane moments? ” 

“ When he was as rational as art thou 
now. ” 

“ Good Mistress Franklin,” said Dick, 
“ I will not conceal from thee that what 
thou hast told us touches my friend nearly. 
He is from Italy, and is seeking a kinsman 
who disappeared not far from Man- 
chester.” 

“ Was he out of his mind ? ” she asked. 

“No; not when last heard of.” 

“ How long ago was that? ” 

“ About a month.” 

“Willford said that this man had been 
so for years.” 

“ Also that he was a Spaniard — which 
thou dost not believe. The other tale may 
be false, too,” urged Dick. “ If your late 
guest be the man we seek, Master Willford 
has no right to control him, and can only 
seek to do so for some evil end.” 

“Vastly fine! Others may have evil 


82 


A FAMILY TREE. 


ends, too,” said the hostess, with a mean- 
ing glance towards Cosmo. “ Have a care, 
Hick, that thou burnest not thy fingers in 
others’ quarrels. Hearken ! — this for thine 
own ear. The poor gentleman told me 
that he was persecuted, hunted from place 
to place by a kinsman, aided by a man 
whom he holds in the utmost dread.” 

“ A common delusion,” Dick said. 

“ I don’t believe it is a delusion at all, 
Dick. Willford heard him say so, and 
added for himself, * So you see, Mistress 
Frankland, we want to remain as quiet as 
possible.’ What is he called ? ” she asked, 
quickly, as though struck by a sudden 
thought, and indicating Cosmo. 

“ Signor Pietri,” replied Dick. 

“ That was not the name he mentioned.” 

“ Dost remember what it was?” asked 
the ’prentice. 

“ Well; ’twas Cosmo de Ribolini.” 

And the other man — he who aids him 
— what is his name? ” cried Dick. 

“ Hugh Desmond,” replied the hostess. 


• CHAPTER XVIII. 
mad! 

Yes, Vincenti de la Torre was mad! 
His mind had been bent in one direction, 
preyed upon by one idea for years, but in 
his darkest moments, his gloomiest moods, 
no desire for revenge upon the girl whom, 
in his way, he had loved, and who had 
sought refuge from him in the arms of 
another, entered it. Nor did he allow 
himself to consider that in killing Desmond 
he would take the sunshine out of her life. 
If Desmond had fifty lives he could have 
slain him fifty times, and felt no regret, 
but not a hair of her head would he have 
injured. It was really more to provide for 
her future, than for the reason he gave in 
his letter to the old count, that he desired 
Cosmo’s presence in England. He knew 
how this brother and sister loved one 
another. He had no fear that Cosmo 
would be hard upon her. It could be so 
arranged that she should not be aware of 
his complicity in her husband’s execution, 
and so would naturally accept his protec- 


tion. The dark cloud which came over 
Vincenti when he found that the young 
noble was false to his mission, had its 
glint of silver lining reflected from this 
very cause. She would have her brother 
to provide for her when Desmond should 
fall. We know what befel his long-laid 
plans — how his vengeance was averted. 
The shot which killed Sweetheart inflicted 
a mortal wound upon his reason. By a 
strange fatality he owed his life to the 
suspension of the faculties which had 
often protected it. Stunned with horror, 
he rushed back into the house, where 
Gregory headed him in the wood. This 
was the last place in which, had he been 
in possession of his senses, he would have 
sought to hide, but it so happened that it 
was the last place which his pursuers 
thought of searching. During their ab- 
sence he somewhat recovered from the 
shock; released Marco; stole little Hugh 
out of his cot; and escaped. If Cosmo 
had not lost his way, he would have en- 
countered him. 

His reason had received a mortal wound, 
but like some injuries from which there is 
no recovery, it did not seem severe when 
the first sting had passed off. This — if he 
had but known it — was the worst sign. 
In time there came others which he could 
not ignore. The clock had struck eight 
the moment before he fired, and every 
night at that hour the horror came back 
upon him, dimly at first, but gaining vivid- 
ness at each repetition. He was going 
mad, and he knew it ! His mania was of 
that class— well understood now — in which 
the sane and the insane thought run side 
by side; not in parallel lines, but at an 
angle which must sooner or later lead them 
to converge in absolute madness. Like one 
who struggles on the verge of a precipice, 
and feels the branches to which he clings 
slowly but surely giving way with his 
weight, and fully realizing the utter de- 
struction which awaits him when they 
shall break, and his weakening hold upon 
them relax — he fought with his delusion, 
and knew that his strength to resist it was 
failing— failing— failing. The horror which 
at one time lasted but for a few minutes, 
now remained with him all night. The 


A FAMILY TREE. 


day was coming when it would never leave 
him. 

His great dread was that Desmond would 
find him when under its influence. Yin- 
centi sane tortured himself with conjec- 
tures as to what would become of Yin- 
centi mad in the presence of the man he 
had desolated. This alone was hurrying 
on the end, until the news of Desmond’s 
death, which enabled him to revisit Man- 
chester and put him in the power of Master 
Willford, relieved him. 

He had parted with Marco whilst he 
could yet bear to be alone, and soon began 
to cling to the witch-finder with almost 
child- like dependence, but had sufficient 
cunning left to avoid anything like a con- 
fession of the cause of his terrors. He 
never told him that he was haunted by the 
spirit of a woman at eight o’clock, nor 
could his Companion gather the truth from 
his cries at night and mutterings in his 
sleep. It mattered little to Willford what 
was preying on his mind; what did matter 
w r as to find out all he knew about Des- 
mond’s affairs, and to get possession of 
those papers abstracted from the old brew- 
house, which tended to show that what he 
said on the subject was not founded on 
delusion. 

Little by little he gained his point; 
found out about the deposit made with 
Martin Earle, and the house and land in 
Staffordshire, but by this time Yincenti’s 
darkening intellect was thrown off its 
guard, and the plotter learned that this 
wealth was not for him. Desmond had 
left a son ! 

This discovery might have daunted a 
smaller villain — it only suggested one more 
possible difficulty to Stephen Willford. I 
say “ possible difficulty,” because, accord- 
ing to Yincenti’s story, the child had been 
carried off with instructions to obliterate 
every trace of his identity. Who knew of 
his existence? Not Martin Earle, or he 
would have mentioned it when the claim 
of the Crown for Desmond’s property be- 
came known to him. Not Dame Martha, 
for she was dead. Who would assert the 
boy’s legitimacy ? Not Cosmo de Ribolini, 
for he made no sign. Perhaps, mused the 
Witch-finder, this is only a new delusion. 


83 

At all events, he resolved to treat it as 
one. 

Having no further use for the wretched 
Yincenti, the next thing to be done was to 
get rid of him. For a consideration he in- 
duced the captain of the ship we know of 
to take charge of him, and to lose him at 
some distant port when his mind should 
have entirely given way, and no one would 
be likely to heed what he might say. 

In order to hasten this end, he was 
represented as a dangerous lunatic, and 
treated accordingly — chained in the dark, 
starved, beaten. That was the way in 
which the mentally affected were kept 
quiet in the good old days. Perhaps he 
might never reach that distant port. 

* * * * * 

Master Willford was punctual at his 
appointment with the goldsmith, and 
quickly detected that there was something 
wrong. 

Could the jovial old fellow, who was 
sitting back in his chair, his face radiant 
with smiles, and a chuckle running all 
over him, from his toes to the roots of his 
hair, be the grave merchant who with dim 
eyes and softened voice had conversed 
with him about Hugh Desmond — his good 
friend departed — yesterday ? Master Will- 
ford could not make it out. Moreover, the 
goldsmith made no sign of going forth 
with him, of retiring to a private room, or 
dismissing the tw r o men whom he had 
found in his company; but sat there talk- 
ing about things in general in the best of 
humors. Now Master Willford knew per- 
fectly well that Hugh Desmond’s savings 
were in Earle’s own hands; and his 
knowledge of human nature did not teach 
him that people give up such deposits at 
short notice, and in the best of humors. 
The conversation — which turned upon the 
new practice of smoking tobacco — was 
animated. The goldsmith laughed to scorn 
the idea that any pleasure was to be ob- 
tained from drawing the smoke of old 
leaves into one’s mouth and puffing it out 
again ; while Dick took the practical view 
— confessed that he had indulged in a pipe, 
and found it soothing. The subject did 
not interest Master Willford. and when it 
began to flag he touched the goldsmith’s 


84 


A FAMILY TREE. 


arm, and with a meaning glance towards 
Dick and Cosmo said in a half whisper, 

“ When I saw thee yesterday, good sir, 
it was my fortune to find thee alone.” 

“ Aye, Dick was busy. Dick here is my 
nephew and my ’prentice, Master Willford. 
Knows all my business as well as I know 
it myself. A young head, but a shrewd 
one if he muddle it not with the fumes of 
Sir Walter’s Virginia weed. Thou mayest 
speak frankly before Dick, and this fair 
gentleman (a foreigner, who honors my 
poor house by making it his home during 
his too brief sojourn here). He does not 
understand our language; I would he did, 
for he is a good friend of Master Desmond ; 
so also is Dick — both good friends.” 

“It pleases me to hear that he had 
friends,” Willford replied. 

“ Had l ” repeated Martin Earle. “ Say 
has. Once a good friend always a good 
friend. Friendship and sound wine im- 
prove by age.” 

“ Mayhap this gentleman (intimating 
Cosmo) is he to whom thou didst make 
allusion yesterday, as one who could tell 
•where the estate of the deceased is dis- 
posed?” insinuated Willford. 

“ Enough of this,” replied Earle, with a 
cheerful wave of his hand. “ Thou hast 
made a great mistake, Master receiver — 
honestly, I hope. Desmond is no more 
dead than thou art.” 

The cold grey of the Witchfinder’s face 
deepened for a moment. 

“ I am here on the King’s business, 
Master Earle,” he said sternly. “ I pray 
thee spare thy jests.” 

“Jests! I’ faith, there is no jest unless 
it be of thy making— coming here after 
the estate of an honest gentleman before 
it has pleased God Almighty to take the 
breath out of his mouth ! ” retorted the 
goldsmith with some warmth. 

Willford made no immediate reply. He 
sat for some moments irresolute. Twice 
he made as though to speak, and twice he 
checked himself. Then his face curdled 
into the nearest approach to a smile that 
it was capable of assuming, and drawing 
his chair nearer to Martin Earle, he said, 

“ We are both men of the world; let us 
be frank with each other. I know that 


thou hast some fifty thousand crowns 
which belonged to Desmond in thine 
hands; and ’tis easy to comprehend that 
so large a sum— invested perchance in thy 
business — may not suddenly be withdrawn 
without inconvenience. Fear not, good 
Master Earle. Those who act in this 
matter will not be hard on thee. Thou 
shalt have time. Thou shalt have thy 
charges. Accounts from such a man as 
thee will require no scrutiny. Thy simple 
word will pass. What canst ask more! 
Go to ! go to ! Why didst thou not treat 
me frankly, instead of making an idle 
excuse which can avail thee nothing, and 
would bring thy good fame in peril.” 

“ Speak of what thou dost understand, 
Master Witchfinder ! ” roared Dick, furious 
at the insinuation conveyed against his 
master. “ The good fame of Martin Earle 
is out of thy reach.” 

“ Hush Dick — hold thy peace, my boy,” 
said his uncle, kindly. “ I was perchance 
to blame, sir,” he continued, addressing 
Willford, “ in that I told thee of my friend 
being yet alive, without due gravity. I 
had only just heard the news myself, and 
was glad — very glad. I was too happy to 
be grave, and thou art excused for deeming 
that I jested. Believe me, I am in sober 
earnest now. I tell thee, Master Willford 
— I, Martin Earle, citizen and goldsmith, 
master of my guild, and one who (an his 
neighbors do not flatter him) wiit be Lord 
Mayor of this city if he live two years — I 
tell thee that malgre all thy depositions, 
thy proceedings and thy judgments to the 
contrary; Hugh Desmond did not perish 
in the fire of his house, and was alive yes- 
terday.” 

Earnest words these, and delivered with 
much dignity. 

Dick jumped up, slapped his thigh, and 
confronted Master Willford with the — 
“now then! what can you say to that?” 
— air of the triumphant. But he saw no 
trace of discomfiture on the countenance 
of the witchfinder. Honest Martin Earle 
had said too much. In his anxiety to clear 
up everything he had made an admission 
in the commencement of his speech, which 
took all the force out of its conclusion. 

“ You are a solid man and true,” Will- 


A FAMILY TREE. 


85 


ford replied. “I doubt not thy honesty or 
thy word, but, good sir, thou dost not 
speak of thine own knowledge. Yesterday 
thou hadst no doubt of Desmond’s death. 
Thou dost admit having only just heard 
. the news that he is — as some one has told 
thee — alive. Who is thine informant? 

How came he by his news ? Above all, if 
the man be living where is he? The pro- 
ceedings taken on behalf of his Majesty 
(whom heaven preserve!) have not been 
taken in the dark. Due proclamation has 
been made — all proper notice given. Again 
I say, where is Desmond ? ” 

“ He is living in Southwark,” Dick re- 
plied; for the goldsmith had fallen back in 
his seat, and had cast a half-puzzled, half- 
appealing look at him. “ This gentle- 
man ” (indicating Cosmo) “ was returning 
from his lodging, when thou wast so good 
as to give him a scull in place of one 
broken by the waterman who rowed him. 
He hopes that his afflicted countryman, 
whom thou hast in charge, passed a tran- 
quil night.” 

Willford’s panoply of cunning and cau- 
tion could not resist this shot. It went 
home, through and through, and struck 
him speechless — stunned him, so that it 
was some time before he perceived that 
his question had been evaded. 

“ I rejoice,” he muttered, with pale, dry 
lips, “ at having been of service to a friend 
of this house. For the rest, it is a painful 
subject: let it pass. I pray thee to satisfy 
.me on the point more germane to my 
business. Did the gentleman to whom I 
gave the scull know of my visit here yes- 
terday, and of its object ? ” 

“He knew of this visit and guessed its 
object,” Dick answered. 

“ Ha ! And said nothing ? ” 

“ He had not permission to say anything; 
on the contrary, he was bound to silence.” 
“ By Desmond himself? ” 

“ By Desmond himself,” repeated Dick. 

*‘ The purport of his visit, therefore, was 
to inform that person of what was going 
on?” 

“ Most assuredly it was.” 

“ A friendly act,” said Willford, with a 
sigh of relief, “ and well timed. Why, an 
I had persisted yesterday, thy good master 


might have made over to me these monies 
out of hand! Was this gentleman (whose 
name I have not the honor of knowing) 
aware that I was to return to-day and 
claim them ? ” 

“ He thought that there was no time to 
be lost,” said Dick; “ and he was right.” 

“ May I venture to ask how Master Des- 
mond accounts for his taking no steps to 
gainsay the rumor of his death ? ” 

“ Thou canst ask him thyself.” 

“ I would fain do so,” said Willford. 
“ Where is he?’^ 

“ That he will make known at his plea- 
sure,” Dick replied after a slight pause, in 
which Willford’s quick sense detected hesi- 
tation and uneasiness. 

“Doubtless I weary thee, good youth, 
with this questioning. Remember that the 
law exacts a shrewd account from such as 
I, and bear with me. Say frankly — as is 
thy nature — dost thou vouch that Desmond 
lives ? ” 

“ Aye; that do I.” 

“ Upon thine own knowledge? ” 

“ I do, upon my soul, believe it.” 

“ But thy belief is based on trust in 
others ? ” 

“ Well, an’ they be honest, what then ? ” 
said Dick, stoutly. 

“ The most honest may be mistaken, 
Master ’Prentice. The honester, the more 
liable to be deceived. Briefly, then, thou 
hast no knowledge of thine own, and can 
say no more than what this foreigner has 
told thee.” 

“That is enough for me; but I have 
other proof— the people of the house in 
which Desmond lodges.” 

“ Ha ! thou hast also been there ? ” 

Dick assented. 

“ Not last night? ” 

Dick assented, with more quickness than 
he had as yet shown. ^ 

“ Thou wast not in the boat. Thou hast 
been there together this day.” 

“What if I have? ” Dick retorted. 

“This,” said Willford triumphantly: 
“ neither thou nor this stranger have seen 
Hugh Desmond.” 

“Easily said,” sneered Dick; but he 
turned deadly pale. 

“ As easily proved,” Willford rejoined. 


86 


A FAMILY TREE, 


“ If this stranger had seen him last night, 
one of two things would have happened — 
either there would have been no need for 
a further visit, or Desmond would have 
tarried in to-day to receive it. Thou didst 
not see him nor yesterday nor to-day, or 
thou wouldst not have given for what thou 
wert pleased to call thy ‘ proof’ the people 
of the house in which — as thou pretendest 
— he doth lodge. Master Earle, have a 
care! Thou art deceived. Thou hast 
heard what I have just said to this youth. 
He cannot answer me. Look upon him ! 
The Lord has assisted me to baffle this 
plot-blessed be his name! Get thee out 
of it, good Master Earle; shake its dust 
from thy garments, and no blame shall fall 
on thee. Thou hast been cozened. Fie! 
thou a master of thy guild, and one who 
may be lord mayor! ’Tis a shame, ’tis a 
pity ! ” 

“ To the devil with thy pity, and thee! ” 
cried the goldsmith in a fury. “ Hugh Des- 
mond lives, though we cannot find him at 
this moment, and will confront thee yet.” 

“ As I supposed,” said Willford, w 7 ith a 
sardonic smile. “ It grieves me that thou 
shouldst take this tone, Master Earle. 
Thou w ilt think better of it upon consider- 
ation. Take council of thy friends. 
This,” gathering up his papers and rising, 
“ must now’ go into the hands of those who 
will not, perchance, be as easy as I might 
have been.” 

“ Stop,” cried Dick; “ give us three days 
to prove that Desmond lives.” 

“No; nor three hours.” 

“ Come with us to his lodgings, then, 
and satisfy thyself. Thou dost hesitate. 
Ah ! then thou dost not believe in thine 
own base imputations.” 

“ I will go with thee,” he replied. “ I 
will leave thee no excuse.” 

Down to the river they went — Cosmo, 
Dick, and Master Willford; and on the 
hard whom should they encounter but 
John Trumble, the waterman, who drew 
Dick aside, and said — 

“ Hast any business with that ship thou 
wast asking about this morning?” 

“You said that she had sailed.” 

“So she did; but she w’as stopped at 
Greenwich, and came back with the tide.” 


“ Why ? Who stopped her? ” 

“ I don’t rightly know, but there’s a rare 
coil aboard. There she lies, with the 
warden’s boat alongside; so take warning 
if thou hast hand in the trouble.” 

“ Nay, ’tis no affair of mine,” Dick re- 
plied ; “ but I would fain learn what it 
means. Say not a word, but row us to 
her as though it were on our way across.” 

To inland-born Master Willford one ship 
was just like another. The only vessel in 
which he was interested had left the port 
(as he supposed), and was well on her way 
down the Thames. It did not therefore 
concern him to find that they were passing 
close by a ship with half-furled sails, until 
a voice hailed him in excited tones, shout- 
ing— 

“I am seized! I am ruined Master 
Willford. They have taken my ship ! ” 

“Upon whose authority?” gasped the 
witch-finder. 

“ On mine,” replied a calm, deep voice 
from the poop. 

The speaker was Hugh Desmond. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A GOOD SAMARITAN. 

You can guess now why Husrh Des- 
mond was not to be found at his lodgings. 
The clue which accident had revealed to 
Cosmo, he had discovered by long and 
patient search amongst the shipping in 
the port and the sea-faring people on 
shore. Half a sailor himself, he knew well 
how to gain the confidence and loosen the 
tongues of men of the sea. From sunrise 
to sunset he was amongst them, listening 
to their yarns, spinning yarns of his own, 
and cautiously pushing his inquiries. 

The clue was but a slight one, after all. 
A crazy foreigner had been taken on board 
a certain ship, whose skipper did not bear 
the best of characters. No more! The 
man he sought was not crazy, so far as he 
knew; but then, madness might be as- 
sumed as a ruse. He worked on the back 
trail of that crazy foreigner like a hungry 
sleuth-hound, till he found out who he 
was. He had succeeded at last. He had 
the murderer of Sweetheart — the robber 


A FAMILY TREE. 


87 


of her boy in his hands at last; and de- 
spair seized him. He was powerless. He 
could not fight a madman — he could not 
kill a madman — he could not ask a mad- 
man, “ Where is my child ? ” 

Well, there was yet hope. The man 
Marco might be mixed up in this, and he 
was sane. 

He could find no trace of Marco. His 
enemy, the Manchester witch-finder, was 
the man who had ridden into London with 
Yincenti de la Torre, who had put him on 
board that ship, and who had given its 
master instructions how he was to be 
dealt with when she sailed. But why 
Willford ? What interest had he in spirit- 
ing the witch away ? This puzzled Des- 
mond at first, but eventually gave him the 
pretext he required for stopping the ship. 
He swore out an information against the 
Captain for kidnapping, just in the nick 
of time. He took one constable, for form’s 
sake, and half-a-dozen sailors, willing for 
what we should now call the “ lark of the 
thing” to help him; and in about four 
minutes that ship was boarded, her crew 
battened down below, and her captain a 
prisoner, in the best buccaneering style, 
with a loss of some ounce or so of blood, 
chiefly from the nose. 

At first the captain stoutly denied hav- 
ing any passenger on board. His cargo 
was lawful, his papers were in order. He 
would have the law on them all for de- 
taining him. Desmond paid no attention 
to his expostulations or his threats, but 
made straight for his cabin in the stern, 
unfastened the screws which held his cot 
to the bulwark, threw aside some sacking 
which covered the deck underneath, dis- 
closed a trap-door, raised it, and descended 
into the dark hold below. 

There he found what he sought. 

They had taken a broad plank and bound 
the wretched madman by his middle to its 
midst with six turns of a stout rope. They 
had driven four strong iron spikes into the 
edge of the plank — two above and two 
below — and to these had lashed his wrists 
and ankles. At the lower end they had 
fastened a fifty pound shot. And there 
they had left him, gagged, in the darkness, 
in the stench of the bilge water, in the 


suffocating heat of that dismal hole, until 
the time and the place should be arrived 
at when that shot should carry him down 
to the bottom of the sea ! Dead, if death 
came to his rescue ; living, if need be. 

Thus was Yincenti de la Torre found by 
the man who had been hunting him for 
vengeance ! Emaciated, filthy, blood oozing 
from ears and nostrils, cut by the lashings 
he had vainly tried to break, almost at his 
last gasp of foul air, but sane , he found 
him! 

It was best to lift him as he lay, first 
casting loose the shot, and to carry him, 
plank and all, to the upper air. With his 
own hands Desmond removed the gag and 
cut the lashings, and so weak was the 
wretch that, deprived of their support, he 
collapsed a helpless heap upon the deck, 
muttering, “Water! for the love of God, 
water ! ” 

Desmond filled the ship’s pannikin, and 
held it to his lips. 

The draught and the fresh river breeze 
revived him. He recognized his deliverer, 
as a wild beast caught in a trap sees the 
hunter who has set it come up with his 
dogs. But gradually the look of horror, 
hatred, and despair faded from his face, 
and an almost childish expression of 
wonder filled it. 

“ Why do you do this ? ” he whispered. 

Ah, why, indeed? Desmond could not 
answer, but turned aside and left him to 
the charge of the crew, now released. Let 
me do them justice. They had come on 
board at the last moment before sailing, 
and were not aware of this part of the 
cargo. There was no difficulty now about 
bringing back the ship. Her seamen, who 
at first seemed disposed to resist the autho- 
rities, soon sided with them. They would 

not sail with such a pirate. Upon 

this the “pirate” (qualifying adjective 
suppressed) gave in, and split upon his 
master. 

How w T as he, a poor mariner, to know 
that the gentleman (meaning Willford) had 
not the law on his side? They had put 
the crazy man down there to keep him 
quiet whilst the ship was getting ready for 
sea, that was all. No harm was meant 
him, but he was so violent. And the 


88 


A FAMILY TREE. 


shot — well, he called heaven and all its 
saints to witness that he had not put it 
there. 

Now in swearing out that information, 
Hugh Desmond deposed that Willford had 
no right to the custody or control of the 
alleged madman, and that he was being 
sent out of the realm without the know- 
ledge or consent of his nearest relative in 
this country, and head of his family abroad, 
the Count de Ribolini, and this person 
Desmond pledged himself to produce with- 
in an hour of the ship’s return to London. 

As good luck would have it, he was able 
to produce him much sooner; and not 
only him, but the principal in the kidnap- 
ping, good Master Willford. 

The Warden had not been on board ten 
minutes when all the parties were before 
him, and Desmond’s statement substan- 
tiated to the very letter. 

Such a complete break up of his schemes 
was not to be realized all at once by even 
so astute a plotter as the Manchester 
Witch-finder. He knew not how much 
had been discovered, but the appearance 
of Hugh Desmond on the scene gave him 
clearly to understand that a change of 
tactics was required. So as soon as Dick 
stopped the boat and insisted upon all go- 
ing on board, he assumed the injured 
innocent. Accused of kidnapping! Heav- 
ens! what an indignity! What a reward 
for his charity to a poor unfortunate, with- 
out kith or kin to help him ! He had 
found him on the road, out of his mind, 
had taken care of him, lodged him, fed 
him, provided him at his own expense 
(here he gave a meaning lbok at the cap- 
tain) with a passage home to his country 
and friends, and this they called kidnap- 
ping ! “ Ah ! ” he moaned piously, “ it is 
a punishment for my sins ! ‘ Whom the 
Lord loveth he chastiseth!’ Yerily, there 
rose a hard thought in my heart, that I 
would ne’er play the good Samaritan again. 
But I do repent me of it; I am in the 
hands of the Lord. I will do the Lord’s 
work. I am not afraid of what man may 
do unto me ; but have a care ! have a care, 
I say! I am the king’s officer, and the 
bishop’s.” 

These last words, somewhat inconsistent 


with the holy resignation which had mark- 
ed the commencement of the sentence, 
were spoken from white lips and a shrink- 
ing form, for Desmond, who had been 
aside with Cosmo, came forward somewhat 
suddenly, and confronted him. His fears 
were groundless. Desmond was not going 
to strike him — at least, not with his hands 
— or to cause him any bodily harm. On 
the contrary, he was going to build him a 
golden bridge of escape out of the clutches 
of Master Warden and the constables. 

“ Most Christian sir,” he began, with a 
low bow, “ ’twould be sad indeed if such 
charity as thou hast rendered should not 
meet with its reward. Doubt not, good 
sir, that thy conduct will surely be reward- 
ed here or hereafter. But forgive me, if 
I say that thou hast committed some errors. 
A man — no matter what his condition may 
be — is not to be hustled out of this realm 
with less warrant than is due for a bale of 
merchandise. Eh, Master Warden ? Now, 
hast thou attempted even to find some 
friends or fellow-countrymen of the poor 
soul to whom thou hast been the good 
Samaritan, or, failing these, hadst warned 
some justice of what thou didst propose to 
do, all might have been well. Am I right, 
Master Warden ? Good! It only remains, 
therefore, for this gentleman — a nobleman 
of Italy, and the nearest of kin to Signor 
Porras in this country, to relieve thee of 
thy charge, and also to withdraw the more 
serious accusation which has been made 
— not by us, I pray thee mark — not by us, 
but by this somewhat excited Master Mar- 
iner — against thee; to repay thee the 
monies of which thou hast spoken, and to 
bid thee— an Master Warden so wills it — 
go in peace.” 

“Vastly fine!” replied Willford, upon 
whom the fine irony of Desmond’s words 
was lost, and who only saw in their calm 
what he took for weakness. “ Vastly fine ! 
but let me also tell thee that in this realm 
false accusations ” 

He had got thus far when the captain 
passed close beside him, and whispered in 
his ear — 

“ Hist! He knows all. Submit, or you 
are lost.” 

“ That is precisely,” Willford resumed, 


A FAMILY TREE. 


89 


but with a shade less confidence in his 
tone, “ what I was about to say. Thou” 
(to the captain) “ art the most offended, 
and if thou art content — well let it be as 
this worthy gentleman desires. I (thanks 
be to the Lord) am too well known — my 
character amongst men is too high, for 
such a charge, so lightly made, to injure 
me. My friends ” (holding up his hands 
as though giving his benediction) “ I for- 
give you— all. May God soften your hearts, 
so that you may see, and praise His works. 
I have cast my bread upon the waters, and 
it will return to me. Was not something 
said of money? I have expended some 
forty crowns, less the sum paid for my 
afflicted friend’s passage in this ship, and 
which— as perchance he will not be allow- 
ed to go in her — this honest mariner will 
refund. But this is between ourselves,” 
he added, as he saw a look upon the hon- 
est mariner’s face which he did not like, 
“ and need not trouble you.” 

Long before this, Yincenti had been 
taken below. Good Master Warden was 
not informed of the plight in which he had 
been found, and consequently, accepted 
the compromise, the more readily as he 
had not the vaguest idea what else he 
ought to do. So his fees were paid, and 
the ship released. 

Why were the guilty allowed to go thus 
unpunished? Not out of pity or affection, 
you may be sure. There were two rea- 
sons for compromise, savoring more of the 
wisdom of the serpent than the softness of 
the dove. Cosmo de Ribolini wished for 
his own sake to hush up a business which, 
once submitted to investigation, might pro- 
duce disastrous disclosures; and, for Des- 
mond’s sake, he was glad to have a hold 
over Willford. Besides, in the good old 
days they were not particular about com- 
pounding felonies. 

The sailors, to whom the victim was a 
poor foreignering— never mind what— were 
very good — aye, even tender, in their way, 
to Yincenti. They washed him, clothed 
him, dressed his sores, slapped him on the 
back (rather too warmly), and told him 
to “ cheer up.” They brought him, be- 
sides some of their own dinners, a supply 
of tobacco, rum, apples, and other deli- 


cacies as refreshment, a fiddle for his 
amusement, and the ship’s cat for com- 
pany. 

Some of these good fellows had known 
or heard of Desmond, and thought they 
were obliging him by these attentions. 
Had he called upon them to keel-haul Will- 
ford and the skipper, it would certainly 
have been done. But now, to their deep 
disgust, Willford and the skipper had been 
allowed to go about their business. There 
was no one to be keel-hauled, and nothing 
to do except to talk it all over; which they 
did, as sailors will — each one telling the 
others what they all knew, and then in 
turn listening to the old story, da capo. 

At last some one struck out a new line, 
and said it was a past-participled shame, 
and that he would be the reverse of blessed 
if he sailed with such a pirate. He had 
received an advance of ten crowns on his 
share of the voyage ; but that he did not 
mention. The idea took, and very soon 
Desmond and Cosmo were left alone with 
the rescued man on board. 

As the “ honest mariner ” left the ship, 
he found something. He found it on the 
main deck, where the struggle had taken 
place between his crew and Desmond’s 
men at Greenwich. He struck it with his 
foot by accident, and it jingled; so he 
stooped down, as though to coil a rope out 
of the way, picked it up furtively, and put 
it in his pocket. It was an iron key, the 
haft fantastically shaped like an anchor 
entwined with sea-weed. 

***** 

When Master Warden and his men had 
left, and Dick with them, to tell Martin 
Earle the new r s, Cosmo took Desmond 
aside, and whispered — 

“ Where is he ? Hast seen him ? ” 

“ He is in the cabin. Yes, I have seen 
him, and he recognized me.” 

“He was sane then? ” 

“ Sane ! ” 

“ Dost not know that he has his lucid 
intervals ? ” Desmond did not, and Cosmo’s 
account of what had been told Dick by the 
landlady of “ The Bell,” raised a spark of 
hope in his breast. He might yet ask, 
‘ Where is my child ? ’ 

He now remembered the strange change 


90 


A FAMILY TREE. 


of expression which had passed over his 
rescued enemy’s face as he held the water 
to his parched lips. Was it possible that, 
softened by suffering, and grateful for es- 
cape from a horrible death, he might re- 
store little Hugh ? It did seem possible to 
Desmond ; for he felt that the fierce crav- 
ing for vengeance which at first had filled 
his own heart had cooled, and was fading 
away. What good, he began to think, 
would Yincenti’s blood do him? Would 
it bring back the light into Sweetheart’s 
eyes? Would it revive the home she 
brightened? Would it restore her boy? 
So he saved his life ; and when Cosmo had 
told him of his visions and his remorse, 
“ Surely,” thought Desmond, “ there is an 
end now.” 

There was no end. In his sane moments 
Yincenti de la Torre hated Hugh Des- 
mond more bitterly than ever: hated him 
because he had escaped his revenge — hated 
him because Sweetheart had died to save 
him — hated him for having saved his own 
life — and hated him the more for having 
spared it afterwards. It was, perhaps, this 
last cause which irritated him the most. 
He was to be spared because he was mad ! 
When lifted out of the hold into the light, 
the first objects which met his bewildered 
gaze were Desmond’s face and the flash of 
a knife. He half gasped a prayer when 
the knife fell — not on his heart, but on the 
cruel cords which bound him. There was 
wonder — nothing but wonder — in his ques- 
tion, “Why do you do this?” He could 
not understand why one should not shoot 
his enemy from an ambush, or stab him 
from behind, or fall upon him when he 
was bound, and kill him. As his strength 
came back, he thought that there was 
something ignominious in his escape. He 
had been spared because he was mad ! 
The idea struck at the sane portions of his 
brain, or at those mysterious influences 
which gave him lucid intervals, and weak- 
ened them. 

When Desmond and Cosmo entered the 
cabin, they found him seated by one of the 
stern ports, gazing moodily at the water. 

“ You here ! ” he cried, as he recognized 
the latter. “ Whose prisoner, then, am I 
— thine or his ? ” 


“ For thy protection thou art in my 
charge, but not as a prisoner,” said Cos- 
mo. 

“ Why am 1 kept here ? ” 

“ Thou shalt be removed anon.” 

“ Whither?” 

“ That is not yet decided.” 

“ But it lies in thy decision ? ” 

“ Doubtless.” 

“ Then do I call upon thee, Count de 
Ribolini, as kinsman, as knight, as fellow 
noble, to stand by me. I charge thee, by 
all that is holy, just, and honorable, to be 
true to thy name and thine order. I am 
forced, for a moment, to be false to mine, 
and treat yon buccaneer as mine equal. 
All I ask of thee is what thou art bound 
to grant — a fair field.” 

Desmond folded his arms, and heard all 
this with a smile of pity and contempt. 

“Answer him,” he said to Cosmo, “ as 
we determined.” 

“ I will do all for thee that knight and 
noble may,” Cosmo answered. 

“ And as kinsman ? ” Yincenti de- 
manded eagerly. 

“ Thou, shalt have justice — even from 
a kinsman whom thou hast so deeply 
wronged.” 

“ By force of an accident — an awful, 
utterly unforeseen accident! But thou! 
thou didst deceive thy father — thou didst 
deceive me. Thou didst take the part of 
yon gutter-blood against the dictates of 
thy race, the principles of thine order. 
Wronged! thou wronged! But listen! 
Protect me from that — that bloodless, pas- 
sionless statue there, of murder, and all 
shall be forgiven.” 

“ He saved thy life.” 

“ Only to take it when it should, be 
sweeter to me.” 

“ Let this end,” said Desmond, with a 
gesture of ineffable scorn. “ I give thee 
thy life.” 

“ Hearest thou that ? ” asked Cosmo. 

“Aye,” muttered Yincenti; “but there 
is something behind. They spared my 
life when they bound me in that den ” (he 
shuddered as he pointed with averted eyes 
to the trap-door in the deck). “ Oh, yes! 
they left me my life — that was the cruelty ! 
A dagger-stroke would have been a mercy. 


A FAMILY TREE, 


How do I know through what torture this 
man, who says so glibly ‘ 1 give thee life/ 
will make me drag it? ” 

“ I mean thee no harm,” said Desmond. 

“ For to-day ? ” 

“ For ever.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because God has taken thy punish- 
ment out of my hands. I pity and forgive 
thee.” 

“ Ha! you think I am stricken mad! So 
I am — I am mad sometimes — but not now 
— not for many hours every day. Flatter 
not thy soul that thou canst pity and for- 
give because I am mad. If thou dost, thou 
art a coward and a knave. Pity me? 
Forgive me ? Hypocrite ! what hast thou 
done to me in comparison to that I have 
wrought against thee ? And thinkest thou 
that I could pity— I could forgive ? Never. 
Thou liest, saying, ‘ 1 mean thee no harm/ 
Let me gain a little strength. Give me 
but till to morrow. Restore me my sword, 
and grant me a fair fight for my life — or 
thine” 

“ What dost thou know of ‘ fair fight? * 
retorted Desmond, stung by his taunts — 
“ thou mean assassin ! I will not fight 
with thee,” he added after a pause, in 
which he recovered his calmness. 

“ Coward ! ” hissed Yincenti through 
his clenched teeth. 

Desmond had turned to leave the cabin, 
for he saw clearly that it was hopeless to 
ask the questions which were burning in 
his breast. He had done more harm than 
good in accompanying Cosmo. The idea 
that suffering and remorse had softened, or 
could soften, such an one as Yincenti de 
la Torre, must be abandoned. Some other 
agency had to be sought, or some other 
chord struck. Desmond had turned to 
leave the cabin, but the word “coward” 
checked him. The speaker’s face was 
livid with rage. Twice he tried to rise, 
and throw himself upon the object of his 
defiance ; and twice he sank, writhing in 
impotent fury. “There is more than 
anger here,” mused Desmond, “ and I may 
turn it to use.” 

“ Signor Yincenti de la Torre,” he said 
aloud, advancing so near as to be able to 
fix him well with his eye, “ till now, an’it 


91 

please thee, what manner of man is a 
coward ? ” 

“ Such as thou art.” 

“ Nay ; that is not a reply.” 

“A coward is one who dares not fight 
at equal vantage.” 

“ Good. Can we fight at equal van- 
tage.” 

“ The vantage is on thy side, but I waive 
it. Thou art well and strong ; I but lately 
at death’s door.” 

“ It would verily be a coward act to slay 
a fainting man.” 

“ Wait but ten days, and, good swords- 
man as thou mayest be, thou shalt not 
easily hold thine own.” 

“ Let us anticipate these ten days. Let 
us suppose that thou art recovered. Thou 
hast thy strength, thy reason, and thy 
sword. Our duel is to the death.” 

“To the death,” reiterated Yincenti, 
with flashing eyes. 

“ There is no need for witnesses.” 

“ None.” 

“We meet in some place where we can- 
not be disturbed.” 

“ Agreed.” 

“We have our swords, and, should they 
fail, our daggers.” 

“ I will take back the insult I flung in 
thy teeth,” cried Yincenti. “ Thou art no 
coward — go on.” 

“We stand face to face upon the sod 
beneath which one of us must find a grave, 
if, indeed, the other have life enough left 
to bury him.” 

“ Talk not of burial ; I will leave thy 
carcass there for the dogs and the kites.” 

“ Ah ! thou dost fully realize the posi- 
tion?” 

“ I do — fully.” 

“ Now listen. My foot has slipped, and 
I am at thy mercy. By some trick of fence 
thou hast disarmed me, or so got within 
my guard so that my breast is open to thy 
sword. One spring, one thrust, and thy 
hilt would be at my ribs, thy blade through 
my heart.” 

“ There it should rust ! ” he hissed. 

“Signor Yincenti de la Torre,” said 
Desmond, sinking his voice, “ what has 
happened once may happen again.” 

“ I do not understand thee now.” 


02 


A FAMILY TREE, 


“ Once before I was at thy mercy as 
much as I have just pictured.” 

“ Once before,” muttered Yincenti, 
growing deadly pale. 

* Once before. Thy aim sure, thy match 
burning, thy finger on the wheel. Bethink 
thee. Now, in fancy, thou hast thy point 
at my heart. Answer me. What would 
come between us ? ” He threw up his 
arms with a wild cry. “ Her bosom, as 
it did before ! ” and fell fainting upon 
the deck. 


CHAPTER XX. 
together. 

“ ’Twas ill done!” exclaimed Cosmo, 
angrily, as he knelt beside the prostrate 
form of his kinsman, and lifted his head 
from the deck. “Thou hast maddened 
him.” 

“ There was no reason in his sanity,” 
Desmond replied. “ There may be in his 
madness. Let this work, I pray thee. 
There are strong waters in this case bottle. 
Give him some, and when he revives, en- 
courage him to speak of — of her. He will, 
when alone with thee.” 

“ I do mistrust thy plan greatly ; but 

“ Ah, brother, bear with me yet awhile. 
Who has more to lose by it than I ? ” 

Cosmo was disarmed. “ Be it as thou 
wilt,” he said. 

“ And thou wilt tell me all that passes?” 

“ Every word.” 

“ Good news or bad ? ” 

“ Every word.” 

“ Thy hand on it.” 

The autumn day was almost gone as 
Desmond returned to the upper deck. He 
paced up and down in the twilight shaken 
to his last nerve with hope and fear. 
Rover, buccaneer, dabbler in unlawful arts 
as he was, prayer came strange to him. 
He knew no formula for invoking God’s 
help. He did not fall on his knees with 
the heart-weary cry of the publican in the 
temple, but his whole soul went up in 
supplication. His little Hugh, his first- 
born, his only son, whom he had fondly 
pictured as the pride of the autumn, the 
prop of the winter, of his life. Had the 


Father of Mercies defended the child? 
Would He speak by the mouth of his 
mother’s murderer? “Oh, my darling! 
my darling ! ” he cried ; “ if thy pure 
spirit may do aught in this weary, wicked 
world, help me — help me to our child! 
Take all my rebellious thoughts, all the 
reproaches wrung from me in my misery 
against thy God. Lay them with these 
repentant tears at His feet, and add thy 
prayers to mine ! ” 

Down in the cabin Cosmo had little 
difficulty in restoring his kinsman to con- 
sciousness, but it was some time before he 
spoke. He suffered himself to be raised 
and helped to a seat. He passively swal- 
lowed the liquor which Desmond had left 
for him, without a word on his own ac- 
count, or in reply to Cosmo’s questions. 
When he did speak he went straight back 
to what was passing at the moment when 
he fell. 

“ No,” he said, as though summing up 
the result of a long self-examination, “ I 
was wrong. I did not think of that. He 
is no coward. ’Twould verily be so. I 
could not kill him — she would not let me 
kill him. She would die again to save his 
life.” 

“ None but a good and tender heart 
could win such love as that,” Cosmo ob- 
served, mindful of his promise to lead him 
on. 

“Bah! women are like dogs: they lick 
the hand that strikes them.” 

“ Not the women of our race, cousin. 
My sister loved her husband because he 
was brave, and kind, and true. What 
more could any man be? Bethink thee 
what sort of spouses the ladies of our land 
are compelled to endure, and then ask 
thyself what right had we to blame her?” 

“ She has brought a taint into our blood,” 
replied Yincenti, sullenly. 

“ Would to God that the veins of every 
noble Italian family were invigorated by 
the blood of such men as Hugh Desmond,” 
said Cosmo ; “ there would be less lying 
and craft; more true courage and man- 
hood then.” 

“ He is a wizard — he has bewitched 
thee ! ” 

“ Foolish words ! A wizard! Were he 


A FAMILY TREE. 


such, what would have become of thee ? 
Thou wouldst never have escaped him as 
thou didst — with the child.” 

“Ah! I have him there!” Yincenti 
muttered with eyes that flashed a wild 
light. “ I cannot have his life, but I can 
take out of it half its delight, and all of our 
disgrace. Would that I could have carried 
them both away ; but the girl ” — his voice 
sunk at this point — “ the girl was with her 
where they laid her; oh, so white! so 
white ! with the red spot over her heart. 
We had the boy then, or ” 

“ Where is he now ? ” 

“ Ah, where ? ” replied Yincenti, re- 
lapsing into dreamy gloom. 

“ But surely,” Cosmo eagerly began, 

“ he lives ; you cannot have . Tell me 

that he lives.” 

“ Yes, I think he lives.” 

“ Think ! ” 

“ I am well nigh sure he lives. Marco 
took him when we separated. It seems 
years ago, but it cannot well be so long. 
Marco took him into Scotland, and— I 
will tell thee why I think he lives. If he 
were dead, she would know it. He would 
be with her when she comes.” 

“ Hast heard from Marco?” 

“Once only; just before he sailed for 
Italy.” 

“ He has returned then ? ” 

“ Yes. He wished me to join him, but 
I — I met with Master Willford, and he 
brought me here.” 

“ But the boy — is he with Marco? ” 

“With Marco!” Yincenti echoed, 
dreamily. 

“Repeat not my question, but answer 
it. Where is the boy ? ” 

“ I know not.” 

“ Is he with Marco ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Then where has he been disposed ? 
What has been done with him?” de- 
manded Cosmo. 

“ I will not tell thee,” replied his kinsman, 
moodily. “ Press me no more ; this ques- 
tioning vexes me. Am I to be kept for ever 
in this cursed ship? Where is Desmond?” 

“ On deck.” 

“ It is getting late ; remove me as thou 
promised. Whither are we to go ? ” 


93 

“ To the house of one Martin Earle, my 
friend.” 

“ Here in London ? ” 

“ Not a mile from where we are.” 

“ Is this Martin Earle known to Des- 
mond ? ” 

“ Well known.” 

“ Does he, too, lodge in his house ? ” 

“ That I cannot answer with certainty. 
Perhaps he may go there now.” 

“ Then will I not. Take me back to the 
hotel whence I came.” 

“ Thou wouldst not be received there.” 

“ Because I am sometimes mad ? Kins- 
man, have mercy upon me. Take me 
somewhere where Desmond cannot come.” 

“ He has given his word not to harm 
thee; he will keep it.” 

“ I do believe him. He will not wit- 
tingly harm me ; but— listen to me, Cosmo 
de Ribolini. I am not mad now. I soon 
shall be. I dread these two together.” 

“ What two ? ” 

“ He and — and the one who is dead.” 

“ What converse can the living have 
with the dead ? ” 

“ I know not. I only know how the 
dead can move the living. If she , moved 
by some influence of his, were to demand 
her child, what could I do! Merciful 
heaven ! what could I do ? ” 

As he spoke, the perspiration stood in 
heavy beads upon his pale forehead, and a 
cold shudder shook him to his centre. As 
he spoke, the man whose life he had made 
desolate was looking up to heaven, half- 
blinded by his tears, and crying — 

“ Oh, my darling ! my darling ! help me 
to our child ! ” 

Cosmo now saw how right Desmond had 
been in assailing this man through his 
delusion — or what they both believed to 
be a delusion — and quickly followed up 
the advantage he had gained. 

“W T hat couldst do?” he repeated. 
“ There can be no doubt on that score. 
Appease her troubled spirit by restoring 
the boy to his father.” 

“ I cannot. It is too late,” Yincenti 
groaned. 

“ Lay thy commands upon Marco to dis- 
close where he has left him, and I will find 
and restore him.” 


94 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“ It is too late. For the love of God ! ” 
gasped Vincenti, “get me out of this ship 
before the night sets in. Something is 
closing in around me different to all that I 
have felt before. Ah ! there it is ! See ! 
yon speck of light.” 

He seized Cosmo’s arm, and pointed to 
the darkest corner of the cabin, where 
there was no light at all. 

“ It is ever thus. The light comes like 
a dim star, and spreads till it takes her 
shape. There! see how it has grown 
already. Takes her shape vaguely at first ; 
settles into part of an arm or a fold of her 
dress, and then the fragments crystallize 
together, and she stands before me with 
her pale, sad face. Look! No, no— there! 
Hast eyes, and canst not see? There! 
’Twas but a foot a moment ago, and now 
her form is clear up to the girdle. Watch 
for the red spot. It is coming. Now ! — 
said I not well? Just over the heart; red 
as red can be. That is where the death- 
shot passed. There is more blood higher 
up ; but that is nothing, though it makes 
more show. That little spot, no larger 
than a rose, let Death in. Watch, and 
thou wilt see her face formed in that 
brighter glow above. Holy Mother of 
God ! What change is this ? ” 

Hitherto he had spoken quite calmly, 
and with that tone of self-complaisance 
common in those who successfully pre- 
describe the phases of a changing scene or 
object. He spake as though it were due 
to some merit in himself that the vision 
should present itself exactly as he had said 
it would be developed and appear. But at 
last, when what he had called “ her pale, 
sad face ” should have come into view, his 
whole manner altered. 

Cosmo (who had been watching him 
with awe and wonder, and so worked upon 
by his earnestness that there were instants 
in which he fancied he could distinguish 
the dim outline of a female form in the 
darkness) felt his flesh creep as he noted 
that change. If ever a spirit from the 
other world was seen by reflection in the 
face of a living man, the spirit of Maria 
Desmond was on the face of Yincenti de 
la Torre, stamping it with surprise and 
horror, fear and supplication. 


“ Thou art going to speak,” he cried, 
half in terror, half in protest. w I see it 
in your eyes, from which the old sad ex- 
pression has departed ; in the frown upon 
your brow; in the menace of your out- 
stretched hand. Thou hast never spoken 
yet. In the name of God, hold thy peace !” 

“In the name of God, speak!” said a 
solemn voice. 

Cosmo turned, and saw that Desmond 
stood in the doorway. 

Never for a moment had he doubted 
that Cosmo would keep his promise and 
tell him faithfully all that should pass. 
Great as was his impatience to know how 
his scheme was progressing, agonizing as 
was his suspense, these would never have 
driven him to play the listener. He was 
drawn by some influence so strong as to 
prevent even the formation of an idea to 
resist it. 

He was present when the slayer of 
“Sweetheart” first spoke of that speck of 
light, and when that cry, “ Holy Mother 
of God! what change is this?” was wrung 
from him. He knew, without an effort of 
thought, what change it was. The “ pale, 
sad face” would appear no more. One 
glance at Yincenti was enough to show 
that, mad or sane, the vision he had now 
to confront was stern, terrible, irresistible 
— so irresistible as to need no mortal help. 

But when Desmond heard it adjured in 
the name of God to hold its peace, the 
words, “ In the name of God , speak ! ” rose 
unbidden to his lips. 

“ Together ! ” gasped the wretched man. 
“Then am I lost! But in mercy speak 
not thou . If thy face be so fearful, what 
would thy voice be ? Let him speak, and 
I will answer.” 

“ Where is our son ? ” said Desmond. 

“ I cannot answer,” Yincenti replied, not 
to his questioner, but to the place whence 
he had never yet withdrawn his haggard, 
eager gaze. “ If spirits know what passes 
in this world, thou canst bear me out that 
I speak the truth.” 

“ But not the whole truth.” This from 
Desmond. 

“ I will tell thee all I know, and he will 
hear me. Ah ! that is kind ! Thou hast 
lowered thy hand ; thy face has softened 


A FAMILY TREE. 


95 


somewhat. I can breathe more freely now. 
I will tell thee all. When I went with 
Marco to thy dwelling that night, I had 
not, as he ” (with a gesture towards Des- 
mond) 44 supposes, a fixed intention to take 
his life. No. I had long suspected that 
my kinsman was not true to the errand 
upon which he had been sent — at my sug- 
gestion— by the head of our house ; and I 
wished to know the truth. Until I was 
quite sure that its heir was a traitor to his 
duty, I was not justified in acting inde- 
pendently and in defiance of him. From 
his own lips I learned that he had tricked 
me ; that his father had robbed me of my 
revenge; that he himself would stand be- 
tween me and justice.’ , 

44 Justice? ” 

“Was it just that such a man should 
rob me of my bride ? Why could he not 
have left thee to wed according to the cus- 
toms of thy race ? Five years I labored 
for a clue to find my enemy; and I found 
him, listening to a declaration that the 
vendetta was at an end, with thy arms 
around him, thy face pressed to his heart. 
I came not to kill, I tell thee, or to steal 
thy boy. It was Fate— Fate ! ” 

“ Speak of the boy,” said Desmond, no 
longer able to control the yearnings of his 
heart. “ No matter what thou didst in- 
tend to do— speak of what thou hast 
done.” 

The cabin was by this time quite dark. 
They could not see each other’s faces. 
They spoke in whispers ; but every word 
came out clear. Outside the swift river 
rushed on, glittering under the stars, to 
the sea. 

“ I carried the boy away,” pursued Vin- 
centi— speaking, as before, to his vision — 
“ before me on the saddle, he striking me 
with his young hands and threatening 
roundly. * I will tell my father,’ quoth he, 
4 and he will kill thee.’ I said to myself, 
4 Ah ! there is our blood in his veins.’ He 
struggled and fought, and cried for help, 
so that we were forced to bind and gag 
him.” 

“My child! my little one!” moaned 
Desmond. 

“ Marco was for silencing him in a 
shorter way, but I withstood him. I would 


not kill the child, though I did not want 
him to live. It was enough for me that 
he should never be able to claim kinship 
with us; and to assure this, it was neces- 
sary that he should be lost — lost to him- 
self, lost to all the world. My plan was to 
take him to a sea-port, and ship him to 
some far country, which, perchance, he 
would never reach, or reaching, would be 
known to none.” 

“ And so perish ? ” cried the father. 

“ Yes,” Vincenti continued, more as 
though thinking aloud than answering. 
44 Yes, I did think he would die. He was 
sick when the ship sailed, and they were a 
rough set enough on board. I had to pay 
a large sum before they would t^ke him, 
and I told them the truth.” 

“ The truth!” 

44 My truth. That he was a child of 
whom his family were ashamed, and no 
questions would be asked how he fared for 
the future. Yes, I did think he would 
die; but there were women of the band, 
and I suppose one of these has succored 
him.” 

“ May the good God bless her ! ” prayed 
Desmond. 

“ Is it better so, or that he were with 
thee? Better, mayhap, for me. If the 
pain of his father for his absence has 
changed thee so, what wouldst thou be 
were he grieving for his death ? ” 

44 Whence sailed this company ! ” Des- 
mond demanded. 

“ From Glasgow.” 

44 For what country?” 

44 The New World. To colonize a place 
called — what is another name for Scot- 
land?” 

44 Caledonia.” 

44 Right. New Caledonia.” 

44 And this is solemn, sacred truth? ” 

44 It is.” 

44 Then thou needst say no more,” Des- 
mond moaned. 44 1 know all the rest. 
God help me! ’Tis a rash and most un- 
lucky venture; badly timed, badly led,' 
badly provided. My son! my son! But 
thou art not lost yet. I will follow thee, 
I will seek thee, and I will find thee, 
though the rest of my life be spent in the 
search.” 


96 


A FAMILY TREE. 


At this moment the lurid light of a torch 
flashed past the stern port-holes, and the 
voice of Dick Earle was heard hailing the 
ship, and saying that all was ready. 

They called him on board, and found 
that Vincent! had sunk upon the deck just 
where he had confronted the vision. He 
was conscious, and apparently quite sane ; 
but so physically feeble, that he could not 
rise. 

“ It is all over now,” he said. “ Take 
me where you please.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE IRON KEY. 

There was a slang phrase current in 
the days of my youth which exactly de- 
scribes the frame of mind in which Master 
Williford left the “Ship.” He felt like 
one who “ had lost a shilling and found a 
fourpenny piece.” His grand coup had 
failed. There was no getting hold of 
Hugh Desmond’s property and estate, be- 
cause there stood Hugh Desmond in the 
flesh, all the affidavits, informations, and 
decrees to the contrary notwithstanding. 

If big parchments, broad seals, and po- 
tent signatures could kill a man and leave 
him intestate and heirless, Desmond had 
no business to be alive ; but alive he was. 

This was a great blow to Willford’s 
hopes; but, on the other hand, he had pro- 
fited by the resurrection. The officially 
dead had got him out of a serious scrape. 
That he had not done so out of pure bene- 
volence was quite clear to Willford who as 
he seldom did anything without a motive 
that did not appear in the act, judged 
others by himself. He knew there was 
little love lost between them. Still Des- 
mond has got him out of that serious 
scrape. 

Good Master Willford lived upon his 
character, and it would have been better 
for him to lose half a dozen intestate 
estates, than to be hailed before a justice 
for kidnapping and attempt to murder. 
This escape was the fourpenny -piece; and 
as he was inwardly congratulating himself 
upon having saved this, something like the 
ghost of a chuckle passed his lips. 


Ineffably sweet and soothing to the 
troubled mind is the thought that one has 
got something out of those who trouble. 

It is even a solace to reflect that they 
have not troubled as much as they might 
have done had they been a little smarter 
about it. As Willford went down the side 
he almost chuckled. 

“Just in time,” he mused; “another 
hour, and he would have been told what 
I had been doing.” 

So upon the whole there was a good 
deal to be thankful for; and the prize, 
being lost, did not look nearly so valuable 
as when there was a possibility to gain it. 
Even if Desmond had really been dead, 
that boy of his, of whom Vincenti de la 
Torre had spoken, might have turned up 
and found friends to support his claim. 

Besides, there was capital to be made 
out of the disappointment. He had lost 
his reward by his own uprightness. He 
might have seized it; but having conscien- 
tious doubts as to whether the supposed 
intestate were really dead, he— the very 
man who was to profit by his death — had 
helped his friends to find him ! Thanks to 
his projected visit with Cosmo and Dick to 
the Southwark lodgings, such a story as 
this might be got up, to his present glory 
and future profit. 

His quick thoughts had travelled so far, 
when the boat’s keel grated upon the hard, 
and his friend the honest mariner whis- 
pered, “ I would speak with thee,” as he 
helped him to jump ashore. 

Their subsequent interview, which took 
place at Willford’s old quarters at the 
“ Bell,” was most satisfactory to the honest 
mariner ; for not only did his patron waive 
all claim to the repayment of the passage- 
money for the “ poor gentleman,” but 
agree to reimburse the skipper for losses 
sustained by the desertion of his crew. It 
suited Master Willford that this honest 
mariner should engage new men, and be 
off as soon as possible. 

With those broad pieces in his pocket, 
and a flask of buxom Mistress Franklin’s 
best wine under his belt, the honest mar- 
iner’s heart began to open. He, too, had 
come well out of a bad business. He had 
got his money, and would have no evil 


A FAMILY TREE. 


97 


dreams about that plank and the shot 
which was to have pulled it and its wretch- 
ed burden down to the bottom of the sea. 
He had been with fellow salts who were 
troubled with evil dreams, and did not 
like what he saw. The money was his for 
nothing, and a good skinful of wine to 
boot. Willford was a good sort of fellow 
after all. He might have disowned him, 
thrown the blame on his shoulders, and 
then what chance of justice could he — 
a poor sailor — have had against a man 
so influential as Stephen Willford, the 
trusted of the king, and the officer of the 
bishop ? 

“ Yes,” he said aloud, “ thou art a 
staunch comrade, and a liberal. See here 
now ; I will give thee a keepsake.” 

“Nay, spend thy money for thyself,” 
Willford replied, abstractedly. 

“ Money be , ‘tis naught that I could 

buy, or thee either for that matter,” the 
other persisted. “ ’Tis some foreign toy 
of no value, but right cunningly cut. 

And he produced the key he had found 
on the deck of his ship — the key, the haft 
of which was shaped like an anchor en- 
twined with seaweed— and flung it on the 
table. 

Willford was thinking of something else. 
It was no pleasure to him, this hob-nob- 
bing with a half drunken sailor, and his 
thoughts were far away from such things 
as keepsakes from a fellow who, he ear- 
nestly hoped, might be drowned upon the 
first favorable opportunity. He was mus- 
ing upon a new plan to get possession of 
Hugh Desmond’s lands, which had begun 
to present itself dimly, but with some pros- 
pect of fruition. The casket containing 
his title-deeds had been destroyed in the 
fire, and the deeds, of course, in it. If 
Desmond were to die, how could his heir 
make out his claim? Nay, more, how 
could Desmond himself resist being dis- 
possessed, if attacked as the crafty one 
now musing knew how to attack him? 
He had purchased those lands himself out 
of his father’s gold. The vendor was a 
ruined spendthrift, gone no one knew 
where. Ah ! if Desmond had only per- 
ished with the casket, how simple it would 
all have been. Master Willford heaved a 
7 


sigh, thus reflecting upon the uncertain- 
ty of human affairs, and then it was that 
the “ keepsake,” flung by the honest mar- 
iner, jingled on the table. 

It was the Ikon Key! 

In an instant he recognized it. In an 
instant the thought that Desmond had 
saved the casket flashed across his mind. 

“Well,” expostulated the donor, “ there 
is no need to clutch it like that! It is 
thine; I give it thee with my free will. 
Gramercy! A pretty way to accept a 
gift!” 

“ ’Tis mine already!” stammered Will- 
ford. “I lost it. 1 — I — did not know 
I — . Forgive me, my friend, if I did ap- 
pear discourteous, but the surprise ! I did 
not know I had lost it.” 

“ ’Tis as good as a gift, anyhow,” grum- 
bled the other. 

“Aye, and a valued one. I thank thee 
heartily for — where didst find it?” 

“ On the main deck.” 

“ It must have fallen as I jumped from 
the bulwark.” 

“ Nay ; I picked it up for’ard of the main 
hatch.” 

“ It may have rolled there.” 

“ Flat things don’t roll,” said the mar- 
iner, beginning to wish he had not been 
so liberal. There was some value, it ap- 
peared, in that quaint piece of iron. 

“ No matter, ’tis doubly mine now,” 
replied Willford, with what he intended 
to be a laugh, “ first by property, and next 
by gift. But say, didst find any other?” 

“Other key?” 

“ Aye ; this is one of three. I may have 
dropped the other two also.” 

“ I found but that.” 

“ Didst search ? ” asked Willford, eagerly. 

“ Not I ! Wherefore should I? ” 

“ Good master captain, let us return on 
board thy ship to-night and look. I would 
not lose those keys for — for — I cannot tell 
thee how much trouble it would cause me, 
were I to lose them.” 

“ Be sure thou hast lost them first,” said 
the mariner, stretching out his legs, and 
replenishing his glass. “ ’Tis mighty pleas- 
ant here. I have my fill of ship-board, I 
tell thee. Mayhap they are safe in thy 
pockets, or in thy valise. I budge not.” 


98 


A FAMILY TREE. 


The Witch-finder’s brow darkened, and 
he muttered “ swine ! ” under his breath, 
but he made pretence to feel in his pockets, 
and finding not what he sought, called the 
landlady to send in his valise, left in her 
charge. This he searched with well feigned 
anxiety, and looking up with a face which 
was utterly false, gasped, “ I have them 
not ! ” which was perfectly true. 

“ ’Tis not likely that thou didst drop all 
three together,” said the mariner, sulkily, 
or I should have seen them.” 

“ Thou didst not search — thou hast said 
so.” 

“ No one else will. Let them bide.” 

“ Some one might find one by accident, 
just as thou didst,” persisted Willford. 

“ And much he would get — a bit of iron ! 
Leave me in peace, Master Willford, we 
will look to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow may be too late. Listen ! 
The other two keys are not like this; they 
are more valuable.” 

“ H’m ! ” 

“ One is made of silver.” 

“ As heavy as yonder?” 

“ Nearly. And the third is of gold.” 

“ That’s worth seeking.” 

“It is indeed, to me, but not so much 
for its metal. I would give three times 
its weight in coined gold to have it safe in 
my hand.” 

“ Thou hast boxes with strange locks, 
my friend.” 

“ Most true. Those boxes are of work- 
manship as curious as their keys. I should 
be loth to break them open.” 

“ And it would derange thee much to 
leave them closed ? ” 

“Very much.” 

“ How much.” 

There was a glitter in the honest mar- 
iner’s eye as he spoke, which was not lost 
on Willford. The man distrusted him. 
What should he do? Make a large bid or 
a small one? To gain time for considera- 
tion, he called to the drawer for another 
flask of that good wine; but the honest 
one would drink no more. Ship-board 
began to have a charm for him. He would 
have liked to stay where he was and get 
drunk; but if he did, Master Willford 
might go on board without him, and find 


what he wanted. The honest one smelt 
what might provide several royal drunks. 
So he declined the liquor, and repeated his 
question, “How much?” Thus pressed, 
Willford made an offer sufficiently large 
to excite the skipper’s cupidity, and not 
large enough to raise his suspicion. 

“ Five ounces of gold for the gold key, 
or as much silver for the silver one. Ten 
ounces of gold for both.” 

“Wouldst part with the iron one for 
five ounces of its own metal ? ” asked the 
honest mariner, in reply. “ This is not 
the way to value such goods. Thou art 
trying to ride off upon the worth of the 
metal of which these keys are made; I am 
thinking of the worth of what they will 
unlock. My neighbor’s box is half mine 
if I have the key.” 

“ What meanest thou ? ” 

“ Roundly this, Master Willford. That 
iron key is not yours— was not, at the 
least, before I was simple enough to give it 
thee. I found it in a part of the ship where 
thou hadst not been, and it did not roll. 
Take it thyself, throw it on the floor, and 
if it roll a yard, call me a knave! That 
key was dropped by the man who stopped 
me at Greenwich, or one of his followers. 
What if I were to go to Master Desmond 
and say, * Kind sir. hast lost an iron key? 
If so, I — not thinking it might be thine — 
didst give it to one, Stephen Willford, as a 
keepsake.’ ” 

“ Thou hast better keep clear of Des- 
mond,” replied Willford. “He has thee 
on the hip.” 

“ Mayhap ; but would he throw me if I 
did him this good turn ? ” 

“ Tush ! This is folly. When we have 
found the keys ’twill be time enough to 
settle their value — to me.” 

“ A bargain has two sides, if you please.” 

“ So has a quarrel. We must not quar- 
rel. It would be a sad thing for one of us, 
Master Skipper, if we two were to quarrel. 
What is this Desmond to thee? Why 
pick him out of the score who were buffet- 
ing each other on thy deck? Above all, 
why doubt me?” — (this more in sorrow 
than in anger) — “ me, the trusted servant 
of the Prince Bishop, the king’s officer? 
Go to ! I thought thee a wise man ! ” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


This brought back the honest one to the 
state of mind in which we found him be- 
fore Mistress Frankland’s good wine had 
warmed him into generosity and stimula- 
ted him into suspicion. If he could have 
depended upon getting Desmond as an 
ally, he would have braved it out with 
Willford ; but he was not sure of Desmond. 
So he gave in, and they returned together 
to the ship, to pass the night on board to- 
gether. 

***** 

In the meantime, Yincenti de la Torre 
had been removed to the house of Martin 
Earle, where they tended him according 
to their lights. What he required was 
rest — rest of body and of mind. Good 
living for the one (the poor wretch was 
half-starved), and anodynes for the other. 
But these were the good old times. 

The sword was wearing out its scabbard, 
so they set to work sharpening the blade 
and weakening the sheath. They bled 
him, they purged him, they starved him, 
and eventually they killed him — all accord- 
ing to rule. 

When I say “ they,” I mean the doctors 
— and he had the best of them at his bed- 
side. Go to Spain, or Spanish America, 
and get ill from fever, or break your leg, 
and the lineal descendants of those medicos 
will come and repeat the practice. First 
the lancet, then the emetic, then the purge, 
and da capo if you don’t die. 

Yincenti de la Torre never really re- 
vived. He had collapsed, rather than 
fallen, when Dick Earle’s light was brought 
down into the cabin. He never stood up- 
right again, or spoke, except to answer 
questions as to how he felt or what he 
needed, and the reply was always the 
same — “ No matter; it will soon be over.’* 

So he lingered, receiving every kindness 
from his hosts, whilst the doctors slowly 
but surely drenched and bled the little life 
he had brought there out of him. 

“ If he becomes delirious, tell me,” said 
Hugh Desmond. 

The time came sure enough, and Des- 
mond sat by his bed-side and heard every 
word. His raving was of people and places 
unknown to the listener. He did not once 
mention “ Sweetheart’s” name, or refer to 


99 

her death, the vision in which she used to 
appear, or the fate of her boy. 

Cosmo supposed that Desmond’s object 
was to gain further information on that 
last head. And so it was at first; -for 
when a man, gazing into utter darkness, 
addresses the figure of a dead person, 
speaks of its foot, its robe, its hands; notes 
changes in the expression of its counte- 
nance, and answers questions put by a 
living being well-known to him, as though 
they emanated from that vision — it was 
open, even in that superstitious age, for 
one like Desmond to seek some sort of 
corroboration of the truth of those replies, 
if it were only of that feeble sort which 
repetition gives. 

But Cosmo, whose leanings were towards 
the prosaic and material, rejected it all. 
The man was mad, had been mad, and 
would be so to the end. Why attend to 
what he said? The manner and subject 
of his raving had changed; but still it was 
raving, and nothing else. 

Desmond heard him patiently, never re- 
plied a word, but watched by his dying 
enemy night and day till the end came. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

WESTWARD HO ! 

Hugh Desmond had a quiet, resolute 
way of doing wdiat he made up his mind 
to do. He had resolved to seek his lost 
boy in the New World, and most of his 
preparations were completed before his 
friends knew that he even contemplated 
such a step. 

Cosmo had made his plan also. His 
brother-in-law must be taken out of Eng- 
land — out of his old life, the sad shadows 
of its lost joys, and the surroundings 
which kept its sorrows present to his mind. 
He would take him to Yenice, to his old 
friend Bosco; and little Mary — they called 
her by her English name now — should go 
with them, and learn to love Marcelina. 
As soon as the year of mourning for the 
old count was over, they (Cosmo and Mar- 
celina) would be married, and then their 
home (wherever it might be) would be 


100 


A FAMILY TREE, 


Desmond’s, and his child would be their 
child — was she not a Ribolini ? 

They followed the remains of Yincenti 
de la Torre to the grave, and then the 
subject was broached. 

“ This ends one chapter of our lives, 
brother mine,” said Cosmo. “ ’Tis idle 
looking back. We must begin a new one, 
with new thoughts and hopes.” 

“We will,” Desmond replied, pressing 
his hand ; “ we will.” 

“ Bravely said. I will take thee to see 
my promised bride — thou and little Mary 
— and when we have doffed these sad 
colors, thou shalt dance at my marriage.” 

“Mayhap I shall see thee married.” 

“ Nay, ’tis past a mayhap.” 

“ I might return in time,” mused Des- 
mond, half to himself. 

“ Return ? ” 

“ Cosmo, I must go and seek my boy.” 

“ Saints of Heaven ! Can it be that thou 
believest what that wretched madman 
said ? ” cried Cosmo. 

“ I dare not disbelieve it.” 

“Tush! ’Twas very madness. Remem- 
ber, I was with thee at the time. Couldst 
see the figure he addressed ? ” 

“No; all was dark to me.” 

“ To me also. So we are sure that he 
was raving on one subject. There was no 
figure of a woman there. All he spoke 
was addressed to the creation of his dis- 
ordered brain, which, as he imagined, 
compelled him to confess. Judge what 
was said by what was seen, and be a 
reasonable man, Master Desmond.” 

“ Dost believe that the living have power 
over the dead ? ” Desmond asked, in a low, 
grave tone. 

“ I do not.” 

“ I do. But a few days ago, I would 
have scoffed at one who would answer the 
question as I do now.” 

“And how has this change been 
wrought, I pray thee ? ” 

“ By thee.” 

“By me!” exclaimed Cosmo. “Art 
dreaming! Why the subject has never 
even been broached between us! If it 
had ” 

“ I know what thou would’st sav,” inter- 
rupted Desmond ; “ thou had’st also been 


a scoffer. Well, a seed will grow in one 
soil and perish in another; so there is no 
wonder that some minds will give root to 
thoughts which others cannot entertain. 
Hast considered well all the words and 
actions of the wretched man whose grave 
we filled to-day ? ” 

“ Thou hast given me no advice,” said 
Cosmo. “ Thou hast questioned me of 
them till I am weary. Wilt begin again ? ” 

“ No, I have heard enough. Thou hast 
kept thy promise to tell me all that passed 
in my absence, and I thank thee. I will 
weary thee no more. I am convinced.” 

“ Is it possible,” asked Cosmo, laying a 
hand upon his shoulder, and regarding 
him with an expression of mixed surprise 
and anxiety, “that this wild idea was 
planted by a madman’s ravings.” 

“ He was not always mad.” 

“ I am not so sure of that. His madness 
was more or less violent-; but I doubt me 
if he were ever completely sane.” 

“ Cosmo, I have pondered over all this 
deeply. He was sane from the time we 
entered that cabin till his death,” said 
Desmond. 

“ But the vision ! ” 

“ Was not that which he had seen in his 
hours of demency.” 

“ Why he described what would appear 
before, as he fancied, it came into view.” 

“ All but the face, mark that ! Remem- 
ber also the shriek of surprise and fear he 
gave when the face came into view. 
‘ Holy Mother of God ! what change is 
this ,’ those were his words. There was a 
change then. The vision of his madness 
never spoke, never threatened him — recol- 
lect thou his gasp of relief when she 
lowered her hand ? in a word, it never had 
power over him. This visitation had such 
power, and it came from me.” 

“ In the name of wonder, how ? ” 

“ I cannot tell,” Desmond replied, be- 
coming suddenly excited. “ It frights me 
even to think what that power can be, or 
how it maybe used. I had it unknown to 
me, and used it blindly. The strangest 
part of all is that he — he, this sometime 
madman— knew what would happen if the 
living and the dead joined against him.” 

Cosmo remembered how earnestly the 


A FAMILY TREE. 


dead man had prayed to be taken some- 
where, anywhere, out of Desmond’s reach, 
and his wild cry of “Together!” when 
Desmond appeared at the cabin door. 
The recollection startled him, and there 
was no tone of mockery in his next ques- 
tion. 

“ But how earnest thou aware of the 
possession of this power ? ” 

“ It grew upon me. I was grieving for 
my child, praying he might be restored to 
me until insensibly to myself the cravings 
of my heart got beyond prayer — they be- 
came commands. Then came the thought 
that the angel in heaven, who was his 
mother, might be permitted to help me 
from hoping it might be so. I passed — I 
know not how — into entreating, then into 
willing with all the force of my mind that 
it should be so — and so it was. No, Cosmo ! 
it was not a madman’s vision which came 
to Vincenti de la Torre that night. He 
was sane. He saw with other eyes than 
ours; was compelled to speak by some 
force we do not understand, and his words 
are true.” 

“At least they can be verified,” said 
Cosmo, after a pause. 

“ How!” 

“ By inquiry at the port from which the 
expedition sailed.” 

“ Not so. A child more or less would 
make no matter. Besides, he was put on 
board, most like, at the last moment.” 

“ With no one to care for or protect him ! 
Alas! ray brother, knowing what thou 
dost of this misguided company, is there 
hope enough to fill thy sails for so terrible 
a voyage ? ” 

“ It has no terrors for me,” replied Des- 
mond, with a sad smile. “ Thou meanest 
right kindly, kinsman, and I thank thee. 
I thank thee with all my heart for thy 
offer touching mine — mine other child. 
In good sooth, I had it on my tongue to 
beg thee shelter her till I should return. 
Take her to Venice, to thy Marcelina. 
Dame Martha Denys, whose son goes with 
me, will tend her on the voyage. They 
will be here to-night.” 

“ Thy plans are laid well,” observed 
Cosmo, somewhat quickly. 

“Nothing can change them. If thou 


101 

wilt not take the child— ’tis not a man’s 
charge, and ” 

“ God’s life ! is she not blood of my 
blood,” Cosmo broke out. “ Was not the 
proposition mine.” 

“ Ay, but it included me. The child 
alone is a different burden.” 

“ With all thy skill,” Cosmo replied, 
laughing, “ I would rather have Dame 
Martha for a nurse than thee. But if thou 
must go, remember Master Willford, and 
take heed to leave thy affairs in good order 
and in safe hands.” 

“ Half-an-hour’s talk with good Martin 
Earle will do all that,” Desmond replied 
w ith the nearest approach to gaiety he had 
shown for many a day. He was going to 
move and to act; to venture and to dare. 
His mind was freshened up by the prospect, 
as soon as his body would be by the per- 
formance; when the blue sea would be 
under him, and every bound of the good 
ship be bringing him nearer and nearer to 
his boy. Cosmo noted the change, and 
though scarcely half convinced, said to 
himself, It is well. He will not find what 
he seeks, but may return with another 
blessing — oblivion ! 

He had his half-hour with Martin Earle, 
and a longer interview with Dame Martha 
the next morning. It w T as not out of any 
mistrust of the goldsmith that he made no 
alteration in his compact with her. The 
casket was to remain in her keeping. The 
oath of Desmond to Denys was ratified. 
He had little that was new to say except 
this — and he repeated it solemnly as they 
separated. “ If I do not return ; beware 
the hand which holds the iron key” 

Has the reader forgotten John Eastman 
— Dick Earle’s “ dog? ” Honest John had 
been having a bad time of it ever since his 
fellow ’prentice returned. The house was 
full of whisperings and mystery. Another 
foreigner was brought there sick, and died. 
Dick was more estranged than ever to 
him. He might go out and stay away for 
hours, and their master — hitherto so strict 
in such matters — said not a word; he 
seemed to like having him out of the way. 
Who was this Desmond — who this Master 
Willford? that the one should sit night 


102 


A FAMILY TREE 


and day by the dying stranger’s bed-side, 
and the other come so often to ask how it 
fared with him. They were all mixed up 
in something — but what was it? Could 
it be another Popish Plot? John became 
angry with Dick, discontented with his 
master, vexed with himself, and suspicious 
of everybody. He also became curious, 
and wounded self-esteem whispered, find 
out what is going on, and let them know 
you’re not the fool they treat you like.” 
With infinite cunning (as he thought) he 
made the acquaintance of Master Willford, 
and soon became quite intimate with that 
gentleman. They supped together almost 
every night, and gradually the ’prentice 
elicited with infinite cunning, again (as he 
thought) that Master Desmond was a 
dangerous character in league with those 
foreigners against his (John’s) worthy 
master, and that Dick — poor foolish Dick ! 
— was unconsciously abetting them in 
their nefarious designs. This was morally 
certain, but could not yet — confidential 
Master Willford laid great stress upon the 
“ yet,” be proved. 

We, who know Master Willford, need 
not be told that he purposely threw him- 
self in John’s way, and pumped him dry. 

Yes, there was another conspiracy 
against the life of his most sacred Majesty, 
and Desmond was in it. To no other 
man than John would Master Willford 
have said so, and perhaps he was wrong 
to trust any one with the King’s secrets; 
but then John was so prudent, and had so 
won his, Master Willford’s, confidence, 

that well, he had told him so much, 

and there was no harm going on, espe- 
cially as by doing so he might save that 
worthy man and excellent citizen, Martin 
Earle, from imminent peril. There w r as a 
conspiracy, and its members knew each 
other by the possession of certain keys 
curiously fashioned in gold and silver. 
Had he (John) ever seen such keys in the 
possession of Desmond or of the foreigners ? 
John had not, but he had heard Desmond 
asking about some key which he had lost. 
Well, let him, John, be on the alert, watch 
well all that happened, and report. Above 
all, let him be on the watch for a curious 
gold key, and one somewhat of the same 


sort in silver. These once obtained the 
conspirators would be baffled. When 
Desmond’s approaching departure w’as re- 
ported, the ’prentice was told to take care- 
ful note of everything which that con- 
spirator might leave in the goldsmith’s 
charge; “for,” said Master Willford, “if 
perquisition be made hereafter, and those 
keys be found in his house, he would be a 
lost man.” 

Thus w’as John led to believe that it 
would be his duty, as a loyal subject and a 
good ’prentice, to be a spy in his master’s 
house, and— upon occasion — a thief. 

Master Willford saw daylight again. 
Desmond might never return from the 
New World. The child which was to be 
taken to Italy might die. Patience ! The 
fruit would ripen and fall, or else events 
could be so shaped as to render its pluck- 
ing safe and easy. Now was the time to 
clear up all doubt about the casket of the 
three keys. If it had not been destroyed 
it would be deposited with Martin Earle ; 
that was certain. Desmond would never 
think of taking it to sea with him, nor 
was it probable that Dame Martha would 
be hampered with it on her voyage. It 
would be left with the goldsmith if it 
existed. Joh« Eastman was instructed to 
be particularly watchful for the casket or 
for any package which, from its size and 
weight, might be supposed to contain it. 
But no casket, or any sign of one, ap- 
peared ; nothing but their ordinary wear- 
ing apparel came with Martha Denys and 
the child. The young smith had not 
brought anything for his master, or for 
Martin Earle; and Desmond had made 
no deposit, save something between a 
small sack and a large purse apparently 
full of papers, in the latter’s strong box ; 
and this — whatever it was — had been 
there for years. Still, Desmond was con- 
stantly inquiring if his missing key was 
found, and appeared vexed and anxious 
about it. 

“ Why such trouble about a fantastic 
piece of iron,” mused Willford, “ if the 
casket be destroyed, or no longer contain 
those deeds ? ” 

One night John Eastman met his en- 


A FAMILY TREE. 


103 


tertainer with a deeper shade of gloom 
than usual upon his face. The ship 
chartered by Desmond and the Venus 
which had come round from Southampton 
for Cosmo de Ribolini was to sail on the 
morrow in company as far as the mouth 
of the Thames, and there was to be a high 
junket on board, to wish Desmond good 
luck and God speed over the great ocean. 
Martin Earle and Dick, and a host of 
Dick’s friends, male and female, were in- 
vited ; and there was to be feasting and 
music until the tide turned, and then the 
guests were to come back in shallops. 

" But. I — ” said John Eastman in con- 
clusion — “/have to stay at home, and 
mind the shop. No outing for me, I prom- 
ise thee.” 

“Methinks good Master Earle might 
have closed his house for one day,” mused 
sympathizing Willford. 

“ Or left Dick in charge, why should he 
have all the pleasure, and I all the work? 
Who is he? Just a pprentice like me, no 
more ! though he is master’s nephew. My 
name is as good as his, I know that,” 
growled John Eastman. 

John emphasized those last words in a 
manner which raised Willford’s curiosity. 
A few discreetly pressed questions elicited 
the fact that Hugh Desmond had made his 
will, to which it was intended that the gold- 
smith and Dick Earle should set their 
names as witnesses : but when the former 
had signed and Dick was called, it was 
found that he was not in the house. 
Then “ as they could’nt get their precious 
Dick,” sneered Eastman, “ they said that I 
would do, and I wrote my name. It was 
as good as his.” 

“ And Desmond took the will away?” 

“Nay; he gave it to my master, who 
locked it away in the strong box.” 

“ Ha ! Didst read any as thou wrote thy 
name ? ” 

“ Not a word. What was it to me ? ” 

“ Right I warrant he has left thee noth- 
ing, nay, being a witness thou couldst take 
nothing.” 

“ I tell thee, Master Willford, there is 
naught but hard work and disappointment 
for me.” 

“ Not so. Listen ! Why should we not 


enjoy ourselves to-morrow as well as they? 
Thou shalt not spend a lonely day, dear 
lad, I will keep thee company. Thy 
Master cannot well return till midnight. 
We can shut up at six o’clock, and pass 
the night right gaily ! Dost agree ? Tush ! 
I have some crowns to spare. What! is 
this Dick to be the only ’prentice who can 
ruffle it in the Mall or Tower gardens? ” 

This settled it. Here was a friend, in- 
deed, one who would not only make the 
evening joyous, but share in the dull rou- 
tine of the day! Here was one, higher 
placed and richer than Dick Earle would 
ever be, who treated him (poor dupe of a 
John) as an equal — no “ dog ” now. When 
Dick came back from taking leave of his 
fine foreign friends, he would no doubt 
want his “ dog ” to trot after his heels again, 
and sit up and beg for any scrap of kind- 
ness or flattery he might he pleased to fling 
him. No such thing! He should be 
taught that his fellow ’prentice was no 
longer his “ dog,” and that if he presumed 
so to treat him, he would meet his match. 
Friend indeed ! What sort of a friend had 
Dick ever been ? Had he ever offered to 
share his work; to stay in a whole day, 
when he had no need to do so, to keep 
him company? Never! 

Not another word was spoken against 
Master Willford’s generous proposition, 
and it was agreed that as soon as Martin 
Earle and his friends had embarked, Master 
Willford should join John Eastman at the 
shop, and there keep watch and ward to- 
gether over the goldsmith’s goods and 
chattels, including, of course, the will and 
papers of Hugh Desmond committed to 
his care. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

“what has hk stolen?” 

The junket on board the “ Yenus ” was 
Dick Earle’s idea. As a rule, Dick did 
not require much provocation to indulge 
in or organize this sort of vanity; but now 
he had a better provocative than the pros- 
pect of fun for himself. He wanted to 
cheer up Desmond— to start him happily 
upon a quest which every one considered 
hopeless, with bright smiles and pleasant 


104 


A FAMILY TREE. 


sounds — to lift him, if he could, out of thfe 
dark cloud which had fallen upon his life, 
and appeared to grow denser every day. 
To no one save Cosmo de Ribolini had 
Desmond confided his theory respecting 
the character of the influence under which 
Sweetheart’s murderer had disclosed the 
fate of her child. There was no need for 
explanations with Martin Earle. This 
was by no means the first occasion upon 
which his erratic friend and client had 
come one morning to say he was bound 
for the other side of the world on the next 
day but one; nor, after what good Master 
Willford had attempted, was there any- 
thing strange in the wanderer making his 
will. Easy-going Dick, finding his elders 
satisfied, asked no questions, and having 
gained the goldsmith’s approbation of the 
junket, set himself to work upon its de- 
tails con amore. As it was to be a sur- 
prise to Desmond, it came off on board 
the “Venus,” which, as we know, had 
come round from Southampton to take 
Cosmo back to Venice. 

“ I’m right loth to leave thee behind, 
lad,” said Martin Earle to his junior ’pren- 
tice, when he had given him his instruc- 
tions for the day, “ right loth, but all can- 
not play at once. Some one must watch.” 

“Aye, master,” replied Eastman, “and 
that some one is always this one,” touch- 
ing his own breast. 

There was nothing sulky, or even re- 
proachful in his tone. He merely seemed 
to say, “I’m poor Pilgarlic! I’ve got to 
take all the kicks, whilst others get the 
halfpence, and I’m accustomed to it.” 
This touched the goldsmith, because it 
was in a great measure true. John East- 
man had not been quite fairly treated of 
late. He was in the way, and we all know 
what happens to people whose room is for 
some reason preferred to their company. 
Many a distant errand had been invented ; 
many a piece of drudgery improvised, to 
get rid of John, or keep him employed 
out of hearing. The goldsmith was touch- 
ed more by the absence of a reproach, than 
by any that ill-used John could have 
made. 

“ Thou art a good lad, and an honest,” 
said Earle, laying his hand kindly upon 


the ’prentice’s shoulder, “ and I will make 
it up to thee, never fear. If I have seemed 
churlish to thee, John of late, it was not 
for any fault of thine, or because of any 
ill-will. I love thee, lad. No, no; many 
things have gone cross, and— and — well, it 
matters not now. I will make it up to 
thee, lad. There! my hand upon it! ” 

He took John Eastman’s hand with his 
own left, and slapped his own right into 
it, heartily. Masters did not usually make 
such pledges with their ’prentices. The 
“ touch ” — a dozen passers by saw it — was 
an honor, though it was intended only as 
a kindness. It brought the tears into John 

Eastman’s eyes and it cost him his 

life. 

Unpunctuality was not a fashionable 
vice in the good old times. The last petti- 
coat fluttered up the side of the “ Venus” 
within a few minutes of the appointed 
hour of sailing, and the two ships started 
with the last half of the ebb tide under 
them, a bright sun above, and a wind 
which would be more or less fair through 
most of the reaches of the twisting Thames. 
There was no hurry. On they went lazily, 
with just enough sail set to give them 
steerage way, until the tide slackened, and 
stood still, and turned. Then the merry- 
makers — with whose proceedings this his- 
tory does not occupy itself— took to their 
shallop, and the ships, with every stitch of 
canvas set, bore up into the freshening 
breeze, and heeled over to it, starting 
sheets of hissing foam from their bows, 
and plunging on as though they would 
say, “ Now then 1 work at last ! ” 

Hugh Desmond remained on board the 
“ Venus,” so as to be with little Mary and 
Cosmo until the last. If good wishes 
could send fair winds and a happy ending 
for his voyage, he had nothing left to pray 
for. Many a cup had been drained to his 
health and good fortune ; many a mother 
had blessed him in her heart. Was he 
not seeking a motherless child? The 
children — shy of him at first, for his black 
dress and grief-worn face — soon clustered 
round him and climbed on his knee, to be 
told of little Hugh, and exact promises 
that he would bring the boy to play with 
them when he came back, aud to tell the 


A FAMILY TREE. 


105 


wonderful things he had seen. Hope is 
as catching as fear. When you come back, 
was the date fixed for all sorts of pleas- 
ures. No one said “ if.” 

Little Mary also became a personage. 
She too was going to strange lands where 
her mother was a little child. Did that 
strange thing like a heart she wore round 
her neck belong once to her mother ? the 
other children asked. No, but it would 
have belonged to her if she had not died. 
Was it a blessed charm? she did not 
know. Her father had tied it round her 
neck just before they started, and told her 
never to part with it, but to wear it al- 
ways, night and day. “ And he kissed it 
— cried over it,” said the little maid ; “ so I 
suppose it is blessed.” 

When the shallop had passed out of 
sight, she sat herself on her father’s knee, 
and asked him to tell her about her golden 
heart, and why she was to wear it night 
and day. 

“Thou art too young to understand,” 
he said, kissing her. “ ’Tis a fancy. See, 
this is for thy brother,” and he showed 
her the silver key. “ Thine means Charity 
— his Faith . I had yet a third, which meant 

Hope, but ” the words “ I have lost it ,” 

were on his tongue, and he checked him- 
self with a shudder. 

Days passed— long, uneventful days — 
and at last the time arrived when the 
courses of the two ships no longer lay to- 
gether. With a heavy heart Desmond 
took leave of his child and Cosmo. Good 
Dame Martha was so affected by the part- 
ing with her son that she lay half fainting 
on the deck ; but as Desmond passed and 
whispered one word in her ear, she re- 
vived, as though the life had been re-smit- 
ten into her by an electric shock. “ Ay,” 
she muttered, as the boat left the side 
amidst the cheering of the crew, and poor 
little Mary’s cries to her father to come 
back. “Ay, Desmond and Denys there! 
where the sun is setting. Denys and 
Desmond here! where it will rise again. 
Hush, hush, my child! I will remember, 
master ; I will remember .” 

It was almost night when the “ Shallop ” 
landed its tired passengers at London 
Bridge. Martin Earle and a few of the 


old folks, who had come to consider the 
best part of a day’s junketing to be the 
getting home again when it was all over, 
made straight for their beds. Dick, and 
some of those younger spirits who had 
not learned what “ enough ” means, made 
service on escort duty an excuse for pro- 
longing the fun of the day — an excuse 
which their fair partners did not wholly 
reject. So that the streets were quite 
dark and deserted by the time when— the 
last leave taking over— he wended his way 
towards Lombard Street with the satisfac- 
tion of having been the promoter, man- 
ager, and all but hero of an “ out,” the 
pleasure of which had not been over- 
shadowed by a single cloud. He turned 
into Lombard Street, and saw a sight 
which sent his joyous blood curdling cold 
in his veins. His first idea was that Mar- 
tin Earle’s house was on fire; there was 
such a blaze of light, such a crowd around, 
such rushing to and fro! There was no 
fire. The glare was made by the watch 
with their flambeaux, and neighbors 
searching the yard with torches ; but 
something extraordinary had happened, 
that was certain. Dick charged into the 
mass, sending several highly respectable 
persons right and left into the gutter, and 
made for his uncle’s room, followed by 
shouts of “ There he goes ! hold him ! 
Nay, ’tis the other” — which he did not 
heed; or heeding, could not understand 
at this juncture. Prone on the floor, 
within reach of his strong box, where he 
had stood a hale, strong man only an hour 
before; his face woefully distorted, and 
the life wrung out of half his body by the 
awful grasp of paralysis — lay Martin Earle, 
the goldsmith ! 

It was some time before his shocked and 
bewildered nephew could persuade the 
bystanders to speak one at a time, telling 
what had happened ; and even then some 
had one story and some another ; but all 
agreed thus far. On returning alone to 
his house he had found it shut up, and 
knocked in vain for entrance. Becoming 
alarmed he called some neighbors with 
whose help he forced the outer door. 
This done, he had gone straight to his 
counting room, and the next thing heard 


106 


A FAMILY TREE. 


was a shriek, and then a heavy fall. They 
rushed to the spot, and found him to all 
appearance dead; his strong box broken 
open, and a portion of its contents scat- 
tered on the floor. 

The “ other ” ’prentice had robbed his 
master and escaped with the spoil ! From 
this point accounts varied. Some went 
that he was in a fit, others that he had 
been struck down by the robber; and there 
were those who were sure they had seen 
a man jump from the window as they ran 
in. A large smear of blood upon the floor 
under the fallen merchant’s head, appeared 
to bear out this supposition, until the 
doctor arrived, and finding no wound 
upon him, dismissed it. 

But how came that blood upon the floor? 

They made a bed for him where he lay, 


for the doctor forbade his being moved, 
and towards the grey of the morning he 
opened his eyes and tried to speak ; point- 
ing his one living hand towards the strong 
box. Dick tried to quiet him, but he 
became more and more excited ; when at 
the doctor’s desire his tablets were found, 
and held so that he might write what his 
poor lips could not articulate. He wrote 
this: — 

“ Dick , what has he stolen ? The truth , 
all ; or suspense will kill me” 

Ah me ! for such an end to a good man’s 
life. The truth was that he was ruined! 
All his savings— all the bonds, deeds, and 
securities for others’ savings confided to 
his care, were gone ! And amongst them 
the leathern satchel, containing the will 
and papers of Hugh Desmond ! 


I 


boob: xx. 

THE FRUITS OF IT. 


The Fruits of it ripen in our own days ; 
and better days, I think, they would be 
found by many of those on whom perhaps 
the reader has taken some interest. For 
example, poor old Martha Denys, instead 
of being dragged to the river, and “ tried ” 
for witchcraft, might, in these more en- 
lightened times, have made quite a nice 
little income out of her reputation as an 
entertainer of spirits from other worlds. 
She might have ridden, not on a broom , 
but in a well-appointed equipage, with a 
name commonly so pronounced, and a 
good many of us would have paid our 
guinea to assist at the seances she might 
have given. And all this without being 
one whit more of a witch than Master 
Willford found her! 

Yincenti de la Torre, with Scotland 
Yard after him (instead of Hugh Des- 
mond), might have gotten off altogether. 
Scotland Yard would probably have form- 
ed a theory as to the murder of Sweet- 
heart, and have given the right man plenty 
of time to get out of the reach of Extra- 
dition Treaties, whilst its agents were fit- 
ting it to the wrong one. 

More than two centuries and a half 
have passed since the Seeds of it were 
sown, as related in the First Book of this 
history, and you have not got to wait for 
the quickening of the germs, for the ap- 
pearance of the first green spearlet with 
which the life below is fighting its way 
into the upper air. You have nothing to 
fear from flood, or draught, or insect. 
Quicker than rose Jack’s famous Bean- 
stalk my Family Tree has grown, and 
its fruits are in your hand ! 

But the one story is ended, and this, 
you may say, is a new one. Good, my 
friends. When does any story end, and 
where will you find a new one? 

I had once a little child, who always 
asked, “ And what then ? ” at the end of 
the tales I told her. I had married my 
good princes and princesses, I had killed 


my bad kings,. enchanters, and such like, 
as dead as I possibly could; everybody 
who deserved happiness was made happy, 
and vice versa. But the end was not yet. 
There came the inevitable, “And what 
then ? ” 

Depend upon it, the dear little maid was 
right, and there is always something to be 
told till the end of time, though the story- 
teller who began the tale may not live to 
tell it. 

In the pages which follow, you have the 
“ what then,” when Hugh Desmond start- 
ed for the New World in quest of his boy, 
leaving the casket with the three keys in 
charge of the poor folks he trusted. 


CHAPTER I. 

“SPLENDID OF MR. TREMAYNE.” 

The parish church of King’s Morton 
was decorated last Christmas as it had 
never been decorated before. 

“ The old order changeth, giving place to new.” 

« 

The old order was for the clerk to pick 
the dust out of sundry holes which his 
predecessors had bored in the woodwork 
of the pew doors, and to stick therein 
little low-spirited twigs of holly — one for 
each pew; for him to tie handfuls of -stiff 
green stuff round the candle-sticks on 
reading-desk and pulpit, and to fill the 
baptismal fount with the fragments that 
remained. 

King’s Morton was an old-fashioned 
town, and the King’s Mortoniaus old- 
fashioned people, for the most part. The 
old order did very well for them, and it 
lasted till pretty Bessie Raynor, the doc- 
tor’s (M. D.) second daughter, who had 
been almost adopted by an aunt of High 
Church views in London — came back to 
spep$ Christmas with her family. Then 
what a change was there ! Burnham 
Wood marching to Dunsenane did not 


108 


A FAMILY TREE 


involve the cutting of more evergreens 
than this decoration under the new order 
required. 

The chancel became a bower, with a 
huge white cross slanting from the east 
window, and the legend, “ Glory to God, 

ON EARTH PEACE, GOOD WILL TO MEN,” 

in fantastic letters a foot high, made of 
red berries, around it You could hardly 
get in or out of your pew for the festoons 
which lined the aisles. 

Half the young gentlemen, and all the 
young ladies of the congregation bitten by 
Bessie (previously bitten herself by several 
London and Brighton curates of advanced 
views), went mad upon the work, drove 
every gardener in the parish into despair 
by the most barefaced robbery of shrubs 
and flowers, tore their dresses and spoiled 
their hands, caused the rector (whose 
bishop was decidedly “ low”) anything but 
a merry Christmas, and left such a mess 
behind them, that it took a small army of 
char-women to clean up the sacred edifice 
in time for church. 

Bessie Raynor did not tear her dress, or 
suffer a scratch upon her little rosy fin- 
gers. She drew the designs, gave the or- 
ders, cooked up the enthusiasm, encour- 
aged the predatory, snubbed remonstrants, 
coaxed the rector, praised every one, and 
put the finishing- touches to the work. 
All obeyed her. 

When, early on Christmas Eve, she sub- 
sided, in assumed despair, on the top of a 
step-ladder, and cried, “ More white, much 
more white, or I’m a lost girl. If any one 
loves me, let them get me — oh ! heaps of 
white!” — a gentleman who had just drop- 
ped in to see what was going on, as he 
was too busy to help, forgot his business, 
and rode away twelve miles for camellias. 

Now it is not easy to get “ Oh ! heaps of 
white” (flowers) on the twenty-fourth of 
December, especially in a country already 
ravaged by Miss Bessie Raynor’s Uhlans. 

But they were got, and “ Oh, Mr. Tre- 
mayne, how splen-did of you!” was her 
greeting, as she buried her flushed face in 
the basket. Then she looked up — still 
stooping over her treasure — and added, 
“ I shall take this beauty for my very own ; 
may I?” 


She had grey eyes, with opal rings round 
the iris, and a very soft light in them just 
then. He watched her as she fastened 
the bud under her brooch, and tried hard 
to say “ Yes,” but his voice failed him. 

Dr. Raynor had also dropped in on his 
return from his “ rounds,” to escort his 
wife home. She— good lady — had sacri- 
ficed herself to the decrees of propriety, 
and was doing chaperone to the fair brig- 
ade of Bessie’s army. The old folks saw 
the last touches given, and the workers 
under way to their respective homes. 
They followed their own contingent, walk- 
ing slowly, with the air of people who 
have something to say to each other which 
neither wants to begin. At last the Doc- 
tor came suddenly to a halt, stuck his 
stick decisively in the snow, and said: 

“ It won’t do at all.” 

Now this might have been a perfectly 
logical conclusion to something which had 
been passing in his own thoughts, but it 
was not a very intelligible commencement 
of a conversation with his wife, so that 
lady replied, “ Oh, indeed ! ” which did not 
help him on. 

“ Have you noticed how attentive young 
Tremayne is to our Bessie?” he asked, 
still at the halt, and fidgeting with his 
stick. 

“ Yes, dear, I have.” 

“ Well, that’s what won’t do. If it had 
been Mary ” 

“ I think there is no need to drag Mary 
into it,” interrupted mamma. “ Of course 
she has not had her sister’s advantages, 
but I don’t like to hear her slighted.” 

“ Bless her heart! who slights her? Not 
I. I think the best praise one can give a 
girl in these days is that she would make 
a good poor man’s wife.” 

“Percy is an estimable young man,” 
said Mrs. Raynor, as they resumed their 
walk, slower than ever, “ and if he had his 
rights ” 

“ Rights ! He has none ; never had. 
One thing that I like him for is that he 
doesn’t cry over spilt milk.” 

“ Well, my dear, we will not argue the 
point.” 

“ It isn’t arguable. If I promise little 
Peggy Smith a half-crown, and change my 


A FAMILY TREE. 109 


mind, or die without giving it, Vm guilty 
of a breach of faith ; but she has no rights. 
She never earned the money, or any rights 
over it.” 

“ But there are rights which poor Percy 
has earned.” 

“That’s another thing, quite another 
thing. I thought you were thinking of 
the estate,” said the Doctor, cooling 
down. 

Now his better half had really been 
thinking of the estate, and would continue 
to do so to the end of time. She was a 
woman, and had a woman’s abstract ideas 
of right and wrong, upon which logic and 
law were expended in vain. 

“ Poor Percy ” had been promised a 
great fortune, and did not get it. The 
person who did get it had not been pro- 
mised it — on the contrary, every step, but 
one, was taken to keep him out of it. 
“ Poor Percy ” was “ estimable,” and the 
other wasn’t. That was the rock upon 
which his right rested. For the present 
Mrs. Raynor was content to leave them 
there, and talk of those lesser interests 
which the Doctor had said were “ quite 
another thing.” 

“ If Sir Stephen did what he ought to 
do, he would have a good income,” she 
observed. 

“ But a precarious one.” 

“ He would be all but master of Wharn- 
stead.” 

“ Till the real master came.” 

“ My dear, you know T he cannot come as 
long as Mr. Dennis lives, and he may be 
spared for twenty years.” 

“ Or die to-morrow.” 

“ Good gracious ! You don’t mean to 
say that ” 

“ I mean to say that he is a man, and 
mortal, that’s all,” interrupted the Doctor. 
“How you snap one up! Do you think 
that our Bessie would be happy as the wife 
of Sir Stephen Willford’s land agent? ” 

“ That is, supposing he come back.” 

“ One has to suppose the worst.” 

“ How much ought a land agent — for such 
an estate as Wharnstead — get a year?” 

“ About a thousand, one way and an- 
other.” 

“ Oh, George,” said his wife, laying a 


hand on his arm, “and we began with 
three hundred ! ” 

“Yes, old woman,” replied the Doctor, 
gaily; “but that was two and twenty 
years ago, and you had not been spoiled 
by an aunt in London.” 

“ I’m half sorry we let Bessie go,” mused 
her mother. 

“ I am quite” growled the other parent. 

At this juncture they had to cross a lane, 
just at a sharp turn therein, and as the 
Doctor helped his companion down the 
bank, they were nearly run over by a horse- 
man, and he half unseated by the starting 
of his steed at the sudden apparition. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Raynor, I’m so sorry. Doctor, 
I hope I did not scare you,” he stammered. 
“ Be quiet, you brute ! ” — (this to his horse) 
— “ I did not see you because of the turn.” 

“Scare me!” cried the Doctor. “No; 
but you knocked me into the ditch.” 

“ Are you hurt? ” asked Tremayne, dis- 
mounting. (“ Talk of the dev — ” was the 
Doctor’s first utterance, but he did not 
finish the sentence). “I’m sure you must 
be. Do take my horse.” 

“ No thank ye,” said the Doctor, rubbing 
his shin, and looking askance upon an 
animal, two of whose hoofs (and not the 
same two) had been in the air for the last 
three minutes. “I’ll walk! I might run 
over somebody. When I ride, Percy, I go 
easy around turns, especially where a .foot- 
path crosses.” 

“I was in a hurry, sir; I wanted to 
catch you,” pleaded Percy. 

“ I’m sure he didn’t mean — ” began Mrs. 
Raynor, but the Doctor cut in. 

“ Well, you’ve caught us, sure enough. 
What now? ” 

“ I think, dear, we had better be getting 
home,” said his wife. (Her instinct taught 
her that something was coming, and she 
wanted her lord’s shin to cease smarting 
before it came. Such small things make 
men cross, you know). “ Mr. Tremayne 
can call to-morrow and — and — wish us a 
merry Christmas.” 

But the doctor persisted. 

“ Out with it, man alive, now we’re 
here!” 

“ I wanted you to give me half an hour, 
sir, to speak to you about something.” 


110 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“ Hum ! Half-past four, and we dine 
at six. Ten minutes to get home, twenty 
to dress. Yes, there’s time; come on 
now.” 

“ Thanks. You’re sure you will not take 
my horse ? ” 

“ Not if I know it,” replied the doctor. 

Mrs. Raynor had barely thrown off her 
snow-draggled garments, when in came 
Bessie — fair Bessie — arrayed from her neck 
downwards in glittering black, lit up here 
and there by bunches of the new blue, 
“just out,” coral roses in each delicate ear, 
a dead-gold dog collar round her throat, 
and bracelets to match on her wrists. 

Not exactly the toilette, you will say, 
for a country doctor’s daughter at the 
family dinner. 

“ But what,” said she, “ is the use of 
having nice things if you cannot wear 
them ? ” 

The “ nice things ” came from that aunt 
in London who had all but adopted her, 
and by whom she was only lent to her 
family for Christmas. When I say “ all 
but adopted,” I mean that it was perfectly 
well understood, on both sides, that she 
was to live with her father’s rich sister, 
and be her heiress, but no regular form of 
adoption had been gone through. 

There was a good many Raynor mouths 
— old and young— to be fed every day, a 
good many educations to be provided for, 
and the fee-paying population of King’s 
Morton had not increased in proportion to 
their doctor’s obligations. 

His sister, widowed at thirty-five, had 
had enough of matrimony, but not of the 
gay world in which, for the first time, she 
found herself rich and free. She had not 
married for love, and love had not come 
(as some wise ones assured her it would) 
afterwards. No children had brightened 
a life of splendid servitude, of which she 
did not receive at last the full reward. 
Mr. Rose left half his money away from 
her. 

A handsome widow, with only thirty- 
five years on her head, and three thousand 
a year at her bankers, is in many ways to 
be envied; but society calls her “detri- 
mental ” as soon as it is ascertained that 


she is not again in the matrimonial market, 
on account of a jealous proviso in the 
defunct Rose’s will. 

She attracts young men, and gets in 
the way of young women, and careful 
mammas can find excuses not to invite 
her— such as “Oh! she does not dance,” 
when a ball is pending, or “ She’s no use — 
she never plays,” when invitations to other 
gatherings are discussed. 

But if she be a chaperone ; if she have 
a pretty girl under her wing who does 
dance, and will play, and has expectations 
— don’t you see! Why, then she is a 
power in the land, and can be as gay as 
she pleases, under cover of affording gaiety 
to another. 

This Mrs. Rose found out during a visit 
paid by her nieces, Mary and Bessie; and 
as she did not want both, selected the one 
she considered best for her purpose — the 
youngest, the handsomest, the most showy 
of the two— and, it is only fair to say, soon 
grew fond of her, and spoilt her to the top 
of her bent. 

And Bessie took to spoiling kindly. She 
was one of those girls who always look 
well, and seem in public to be in a good 
humor. She graced her surroundings, 
whatever they were. Dress her in a six- 
penny print, and the thought how sim- 
plicity becomes her would arise. Let her 
sweep past “ in sheen of satin and glimmer 
of pearl,” and you would exclaim, “ How 
well she carries it off! ” 

Things — I am a male creature, and dare 
not condescend (as the Scotch lawyers 
say) to particulars in ladies’ dress — things, 
I repeat, lost their individuality, and com- 
bined to grace her. Where they were 
wanted to hang, they hung; and where 
they ought to cling, they clung. Her hair 
would fall into the most fashionable dis- 
order all by itself, and the flowers on her 
skirt never got tumbled. 

She did not spare her “ nice things.” 
She liked to pelt King’s Morton with new 
bonnets, and to sting the hearts of its 
female population with envy — not unmixed 
with hatred and malice — by changing ex- 
hibitions of clinging robes of designs and 
colors which had not, as yet, penetrated 
into those parts. 


A FAMILY TREE. 


Ill 


This is the young lady who entered her 
mother’s room, as just now narrated, and 
said — 

“ Papa’s got Mr. Tremayne in the study, 
ma ; and I’ll bet you anything you like it’s 
all about me ! ” 


CHAPTER II. 

IN THE STUDY WITH PAPA. 

“Now then,” said Doctor Raynor, as 
soon as he had pulled off his wet boots 
and socks, and warmed his feet at the fire. 
“You see that I stand on no ceremonies 
with you, Percy. Never mind prelimi- 
naries, and fire away.” 

“ I have written to my cousin, sir,” said 
his obedient visitor, “ and here is a copy of 
my letter. If you will be kind enough to 
read it — I have made it as short and as 
much to the point as I could — you will see 
how I stand, and what I want.” 

Doctor Raynor took the paper, and read 
as follows : — 

Wham&tead, Nov. 25th, 1874. 

“ My dear Sir Stephen, 

“ It is now three years since your 
father died, and, at your request, I went 
on as before managing this estate. I asked 
you at the time to appoint some more ex- 
perienced person as your agent, but this 
you declined to do ; and as you have found 
no fault with my proceedings, and the ac- 
counts furnished appear to be satisfactory, 
I must conclude that what I have done 
meets with your approval. Upon several 
occasions I have hinted that my position 
was not as clearly defined as I could wish, 
without receiving from you a satisfactory 
reply. The time has come when I must 
do something more than hint. 

“ I want you to send me a formal ap- 
pointment as your land agent, and attach 
an income to the position, in order that I 
may judge whether I am justified in ask- 
ing one* who has become very dear to me, 
and to whom I flatter myself I may be- 
come dear, to share it with me. In four 
words — I want to marry. If you do not 
know what land agents for an estate such 
as yours usually receive, I suppose you can 
easily find out. Let this be a purely busi- 


ness transaction. Forget that we are rela- 
tions, and leave all that passed previous to 
my uncle’s death entirely out of the ques- 
tion. If your proposals do not suit me, I 
shall feel no hesitation in telling you so. 
If my services do not suit you, be equally 
frank. There are plenty of competent 
men for you to choose from, and I dare 
say I shall be able to find other employ- 
ment. 

“ Please let me hear from you before 
Christmas. 

“ Yours sincerely, 

“Percy Tremayne.” 

“ A straightforward, manly letter,” said 
the doctor. “ Well, has he answered it? ” 

“ He has,” replied Percy, handing a sheet 
of pink paper, bearing an elaborate mono- 
gram at the top, and exhaling a strong 
odor of musk. “ Read it, and tell me what 
it means.” 

What it expressed was this : — 

New York, Dec. 14th, 1874. 

“ Dear Percy, 

“ I have yours of the 25th 
ult. What on earth do you want more 
than you have got? What is better than 
a carte blanche f Is not Wharnstead big 
enough for you and the lady, to whom I 
have not the slightest doubt you will be- 
come very dear ? Setting aside the amiable 
arrangement made for me by ray excellent 
father and Mr. Dennis (who, by-the-bye, I 
hear is good enough to patronize you), I 
shall probably never trouble the old place 
with my presence, unless I become very 
dear to somebody, which is not likely, as 
I am already very dear to myself, and in- 
clined to let well alone. 

“ Really, my dear fellow, if I were only 
to judge you by your letter, I should take 
the first steamer for Liverpool, rush up by 
the express, advertise for an agent, and 

thank God that I had got rid of a 

goose. You are treated by me as a cousin, 
and you want to be a paid servant I You 
have the position of a country gentleman, 
and you pine for an appointment as bailiff! 
This is the consequence of becoming 
‘dear!’ You are in love, my poor Percy, 
and so stand excused. 

“I haven’t the least idea what people 


112 


A FAMILY TREE. 


pay land agents, and there is no one here 
to enlighten me. It would tire me dread- 
fully to find out. You know. Why 
bother me with this more than the price 
of hay and corn. Take what you want, 
and put it down in the bill, which I never 
see, and if I did would probably not under- 
stand. 

“ With best regards to the ‘ dear ’ one, 
and regrets that I am unable to offer my 
services as best man, 

“ Believe me, 

“ My dear cousin, 

“ Yours very sincerely, 
“Stephen Willford. 

“P.S. — How about that £3714 8s. 2d. 
spent on some sort of improvements the 
year before last? Rather a big sum to 
sink all at once, wasn’t it? I hope it’s 
soon going to show some return. I muddle 
away a good deal of money one way and 
another, and shall want to draw more than 
usual next year. 

“S. W.” 

“New York!” said Doctor Raynor, 
turning back to the date. “ I thought he 
lived in Paris?” 

“ So he does generally.” 

“ What’s he doing in America? ” 

“I really cannot say.” 

“Hum! Well, what do you think of 
his answer? ” 

“ I don't like the postscript, sir.” 

“ Nor I. How much have you been in 
the habit of drawing? ” 

“Very little, I have been living at his 
expense, of course — drinking his wine, 
eating his mutton and his game, and that 
sort of thing. And when I went up to 
London on his business last summer, I 
charged my hotel bill; but in actual 
money, I don’t suppose I have drawn two 
hundred pounds.” 

“ Not in three years ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ More fool you,” the Doctor muttered 
to himself. “ I’m afraid you’ve spoiled 
your market,” he added aloud. 

“ I had no need for money. Sir William 
was very liberal,” Percy replied. “ Besides, 
I always expected that my cousin would 


make some com — some arrangement, and 

wasn’t in any hurry about it until ” 

Here he came to a halt, and got very red. 

“ Have you discussed this with your 
mother ? ” the Doctor asked. 

He had not been listening to the last 
explanation, and was looking into the fire 
with his elbows on his knees, and his 
hands under his chin. 

“ My mother has peculiar views on the 
subject, which — I say it in all respect — 
disqualify her to give me good advice. 
She thinks I ought to have the whole 
estate. I am afraid she would not like 
the idea of my asking for a salary out of 
it. She comes of a proud race, you know, 
and (with a smile) has the most unpracti- 
cal and unbusiness-like ideas, but the 
warmest heart in the world.” 

“ I was telling Mrs. Raynor to-day that 
I liked you because you don’t cry over 
spilt milk,” said the Doctor without look- 
ing up. 

“Thanks; but you see it wasn’t my 
milk, that was spilt; so why should I 
cry ? ” 

“ That’s the sensible view to take of it. 
Stick to that, and don’t let anybody talk 
nonsense to you about family pride. Your 
people on your mother’s side have had 
enough of pride.” 

“ Poor mother ! mighty little else came 
to her.” 

“ If your grandfather had had the sense 
to put some of it in his pocket, they might 
have gone back to their own country and 
lived comfortably upon their property; 

instead of Bah ! I’ve no patience with 

people who run their heads against a brick 
wall, and quarrel with their bread and 
butter for pride ! ” the Doctor got excited, 
and poked the fire. 

“ What was that about spilt milk ? ” 
asked the younger man maliciously. 

“ Never you mind. Let’s get back to 
that business which brought you here.” 

The Doctor rose, thrust his hands deep 
into his pockets, and stood with his back 
to the grate — an attitude he w r as wont to 
assume at all seasons when about to lay 
down the law. He thought for awhile. 
Then he took up Sir Stephen Willford’s 
letter and re-read it. 


A FAMILY TREE. 


113 


“ We were speaking of the postscript,” 
suggested Percy, breaking the silence. 

“ Don’t interrupt! ” said Doctor Raynor. 
“ Now look here, I’m not one of those who 
like to make mischief, I hope. Who was 
it who said that a postscript was often like 
a scorpion’s tail — the place where the sting 
is? You’ve found this out for yourself, or 

I wouldn’t now there’s another thing. 

Do you come to me, merely as a friend, to 
ask what I think of this letter? ” 

“ No, sir, I came to ask you as Bessie’s 
father.” 

“ Good ! So Bessie is the lady to whom 
— — no, I won’t repeat the phrase which 
seems so to tickle Sir Stephen. You want 
to marry Bessie ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, I do.” 

The words look cold and commonplace 
on paper. The doctor saw nothing com- 
monplace or cold in the face of the speaker, 
and thought that they rung like true 
metal. 

“Good again! I like you to be frank, 
and we’ve only half-an-hour, you know. 
To begin with, Bessie don’t quite belong 
to us. Her aunt has taken possession of 
her. She has expectations from her aunt.” 

“ I never thought of that.” 

“ You’ve got to think of it. You’ve got 
to ask yourself if the position you asked of 
your cousin is one into which a girl spoiled 
by two seasons in London, and God knows 
what sort of nonsense put into her head, 
could settle down into, and be happy.” 

“ There is not the difference between 
town and country now that there used to 
be,” said Percy. 

“ That’s true.” 

“ And I suppose I could take my wife to 
London sometimes.” 

“ To the cattle show ? ” growled the 
Doctor. 

“ Yes, and to Her Majesty’s drawing- 
rooms upon occasion,” replied Percy 
quietly. “ She would not be the first Mrs. 
Tremayne who has been there.” 

“ Give me your hand, my boy. I like 
that. It was a dirty sneer of mine about 
the cattle show. I’m sorry. Well, what 
does Bessie say ? ” 

“ I have not spoken to her, yet. I 
thought it right to come to you first.” 

8 


“ That was the old-fashioned way. I 
congratulate you upon sticking to it. 
What do you think she’ll say when you 
do?” 

“ I think she likes me. I hope that in 
time — that perhaps ” 

“Yes, yes; I understand,” interrupted 
the Doctor, “ but we’ve shunted business. 
Let’s get back to Willford’s letter. The 
letter is fair enough taken alone ; but that 
infernal postscript shows the cloven hoof. 
Boiled and peeled, and simmered down in 
its own sauce, it comes to this: 4 1 will not 
give you a definite position, or a fixed 
income, because I want to keep you de- 
pendent. Marry; take your wife to a 
house which isn’t your own, and live upon 
what I please to allow you — and you will 
be more under my thumb than ever. I 
pretend not to read or understand ac- 
counts; but can tell to two-pence what 
was spent upon improvements two years 
ago. I tell you to take what you want; 
but give you clearly to understand that 
you must send me more money than usual 
(and consequently take less yourself) for 
the future.’ That is what it means! He 
knows what those improvements were.” 

“ They were for almost rebuilding the 
house.” 

“ Of course. He knows they will not 
return a shilling, unless it’s let, and he 
offers it to you ! Percy, he looks to coming 
back, or he never would have sanctioned 
that outlay.” 

“ The whole place would have tumbled 
down if he hadn’t.” 

“ What would that have mattered to 
him, if he never meant to live there ? ” 

“ That is true,” mused Percy. 

“ Read between the lines, Willford’s 
letter means what I have said. I know 
him. Now I’ll tell you what to do — I’m 
not speaking as Bessie’s father, we must 
leave her out of this till things are a good 
bit more clear— but as a friend. Write 
again, and take the bull by the horns. 
Say in so many words, ‘ send me by return 
mail an appointment as your land agent 
at one thousand pounds a year for five 
years certain ; or I quit the place this day 
three months,’ that’s notice enough.” 

“ And if he take me at my word — I 


114 


A FAMILY TREE. 


mean, if he refuse?” Percy asked with 
dry lips and a beating heart. Leave 
Wharn stead! give up all hope of Bessie! 
he thrown upon the world with nothing 
but his brains to help him ! The contin- 
gency was not a pleasant one to contem- 
plate. 

“ I don’t think he will refuse,” said the 
doctor drily. 

“ He might. Remember that he has no 
reason to like me. No one likes the man 
who was intended to supplant him; of 
course, I serve his interests more fully per- 
haps more honestly, than an utter stranger 
would; but he might not think so.” 

“ My dear Percy, if it suit him to throw 
you over, he’ll do so at any moment. Be 
sure of that. There’s not a drop of gene- 
rosity in the Willford blood. Do you 
think old Sir William took you up because 
he loved you, or wanted to benefit you ? 
Not a bit of it. He did so to spite his son, 
and please himself— not you. His son will 
use you as long as you are necessary, and 
when you are not, he’ll throw you away 
like the stump of a cigar. Therefore I say 
don’t trust him. Tie him up over his 
signature to a contract, and if he won’t be 
tied, break with him. You’ll never be 
younger than you are, and it will be easier 
to begin again now than hereafter.” 

Begin again ! Here was a man who had 
already made two beginnings, and could 
not be blamed because they led to nothing. 
Left fatherless as a child, and ignored by 
all his relatives, the indomitable spirit and 
perseverence of his mother gave him edu- 
cation, whilst she often hungered for bread. 
He won an Exhibition from a famous 
public school, won a Scholarship at Oxford, 
and was surely winning his way to a first 
class and a fellowship, when he was sent 
for to reign at Wharnstead. For three 
years he lived there as its future owner, 
and when we first meet him, he has been 
there just as long as its unrecognised land 
agent. He left the university at twenty, 
as you know his age. Rather hard to have 
to “ begin again ” for the third time at 
twenty-six ! Harder still to hear such an 
eventuality mentioned by a man whose 
daughter he wants to marry! 

But the doctor gave good advice. Percy’s 


position was not such a very bad one, 90 
long as he was content to remain a 
bachelor. As a man in love he had to 
know the worst, and then work for a better 
fortune. 

“ I’d ask you to stay dinner,” said 
Doctor Raynor, “ but perhaps under all 
the circumstances you understand?” 

“ Perfectly. I go to my mother to- 
morrow, and may stay a fortnight. It 
will be three weeks before I can get an 
answer.” 

“ From Willford?” 

“ From Willford.” 

“ Let me see it when it comes,” said the 
doctor; “and in the meantime, I hope I 
may trust you not to ask another ques- 
tion ? ” 

“ You may, sir.” 

“That’s a good fellow! Let things go 
on just as usual ; only don’t imagine that 
it all depends upon your cousin. You’ve 
Bessie to reason with, and Bessie’s aunt. 
I won’t answer for either. They may 
have picked up some duke as a son-in-law 
for me, for anything I know.” 

Percy Tremayne rode back over the 
snow to Wharnstead rather troubled by 
that last shot of the doctor’s. Bessie to 
reas'on^vith, and Bessie’s aunt! Bessie 
was not the sort of girl to whom one could 
offer love in a cottage, and as to Bessie’s 
aunt — the less one spoke of love to her the 
better. She did not believe in love. Her 
favorite materials for bearable wedding 
bonds were title deeds, diamonds, and the 
three per cents. He shut his teeth and 
drew a long breath as the house came into 
sight standing up, huge and solid, against 
the winter sky. Ah ! if he could have 
gone a wooing as squire of Wharnstead, 
how differently might that half hour with 
papa in the study have ended! 

He went in, and eat his solitary dinner 
I in one of the two solitary rooms which 
had life in them, of all that great pile. A 
square, high-pitched, well-like place it was, 
with faded tapestry on the walls, and a 
covey of ugly Cupids sprawling over the 
ceiling. Here it was that six years ago he 
had been received by old Sir William, and 
told to consider himself his heir; and here 
it is that he keeps his books of account 


A FAMILY TREE. 


115 


and writes his letters as young Sir Stephen’s 
agent ! A falling off indeed ! But it was 
only since he had begun to think of Bessie 
as a wife, that he realised the immensity 
and significance of it. Light came his 
fortune, and lightly it had flown ! It 
seemed to be a pleasant lot enough, at 
first, to be agent — such an agent as he 
was, one whom half the county treated as 
the squire. Some hurts do not begin to 
disable until we want to use all our 
strength — and this was one of them. His 
heart began to harden against Sir Stephen. 
If he had only done what ordinary good 
feeling — nay, as it now appeared to his 
cousin — ordinary honesty should have dic- 
tated ; how smooth the course of true love 
might have run! Thus mused the man 
whom Doctor Raynor liked because he 
didn’t cry over spilled milk, the man who 
had no “ rights.” Well, there are rights 
and rights. The doctor was speaking as 
he walked home with Mrs. Raynor, of such 
as may be judicially recognised and en- 
forced; and of these Percy Tremayne had 
none. His wife was thinking of such as 
bind in conscience and in honor, and 
which society is not without the means of 
establishing after a fashion. Let us see 
how he stands as regards these, as he lights 
his pipe, and sits down to write to New 
York as prescribed by Doctor Raynor. 

Old Sir William had absolute power 
over the Wharn stead property. For rea- 
sons to be explained hereafter, he decided 
to disinherit his only son, and to make 
Percy Tremayne his heir. As such he 
presented him to the county, as such he 
bade his servants obey him, as such he 
gave over to him the sole management of 
the estate. He had a will drawn up leav- 
ing to him everything he possessed hut 

he never signed it . “ Any time will do for 
that; ” he told his lawyer, as he locked it 
up in his* desk. He was a hale old man, 
sound and active — might live another 
twenty years. He was killed within three, 
in a railway accident. So everything went 
by accident to the legal heir — the son, and 
with it, as some held, an obligation to 
carry out his father’s wishes — at least in 
part. Percy had a “ right,” they thought, 
to be handsomely provided for. 


Now for the other side. Arguing for 
Sir Stephen, it was urged that his father 
had wrongfully condemned him. But for 
that mistake, he would have lived at 
Wharnstead as heir apparent, and Percy 
have never entered its gates. But for 
that mistake Sir William would not have 
given instructions for the disinheriting 
will. The accident of not signing it only 
put matters right again. Mr. Tremayne 
had certainly met with a serious disap- 
pointment, for which, however, he could 
blame no one but the dead. For Sir 
Stephen to divide the property, or any- 
thing like that, would simply be to ac- 
knowledge that his father had acted justly, 
and to condemn himself. 

So you see the whole thing turns upon 
the question, “What bad Stephen Will- 
ford done ? ” 


CHAPTER III. 

WITH MAMMA. 

*' Papa’s got Mr. Tremayne in the study, 
ma, and I’ll bet you anything you like it’s 
all about me.” 

I repeat the speech which in theatrical 
parlance “ brought on ” Bessie in mamma’s 
room upstairs, as Percy was having his 
half hour with papa below. 

Mrs. Raynor had ceased to be astonished 
at the manner in which her daughter 
rapped out things about which young 
people did not talk when that lady was a 
girl. She only stopped dressing, and tried 
to find in the face of the speaker some 
clue to the feelings which followed from 
this discovery. She might as well have 
sought them from the photograph on the 
wall. Not a flush on the broad white 
brow — not a quiver on the full firm lips. 
Nothing but the faintest possible contrac- 
tion of the opal-ringed eyes. The scrutiny 
over, Mrs. Raynor went on with her toilet, 
as she didn’t know what to say. So Bessie 
re-commenced. 

“ I thought p’r’aps papa would ask him 
to stay and dine, so I put on some war- 
paint.” 

“ My love ! if you only knew how it 
spoils the complexion, and how vulgar it 
is to paint.” 


116 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“You dear, literal, innocent mamma! 
War-paint isn’t rouge. It’s this, and this, 
and this,” she laughed, touching silk and 
gold and lace. 

“ Would it please you if papa were to ask 
him to stay and dine ? ” asked her mother, 
after a pause. 

“ Well— eh— yes. He’s pretty good fun, 
hut you know he’s only a Detrimental.” 

“ A what? ” 

“ A Detrimental.” 

“ What is that ? ” 

“ And here,” cried Bessie, throwing up 
her hands in mock amaze, “ here is the 
grown-up mother of two marriageable 
young women, who don’t know what a 
Detrimental is! Really, mamma, you 
should be more attentive. Detrimentals 
— you best of antediluvian parents — Detri- 
mentals are, as a rule, the nicest people 
out — soldiers, barristers, artists, men in 
the F. O. and the Treasury, who talk well, 
and waltz divinely, but haven’t got any 
money. And, mamma, dear, the very 
nicest have such a strange expression — a 
sort of hunted look — in their faces when 
they are not talking to you. There’s al- 
ways some money-lender or some dreadful 
woman after them.” 

“ I hope to goodness, Bessie, you don’t 
go on in this way with Mary?” was her 
mother’s comment upon this lesson. 

“ Poor dear Mary ! Of course not. 
Detrimentals, in short, are men who can’t 
marry, and may flirt, thus shutting out 
those who can marry, and want to. Detri- 
mental to matrimony, don’t you see ? One 
has to marry something.” 

“ No, my dear, som ebody” 

“ Somebody with something, then. Now, 
Percy Tremayne has not got anything, and 
is nice, therefore he is a Detrimental.” 

“ Bessie, my child, I wish you would 
he serious, and candid with me. What 
has passed between you and Mr. Tre- 
mayne ? ” 

“ Lots of flowers, and such beauties! ” 

“Oh, Bessie! when you see that I am 
serious and anxious! You know very 
well what I mean. Why, even your father 
noticed it.” 

“ O — h !” said Bessie, rounding her lips, 
and arching her brows. “ I see ! Then 


it’s papa, talking to Percy, and not Percy 
gone to have it out with papa! My! how 
I would like to bore a hole through here ” 
(tapping the carpet with the point of her 
slipper), “ and see the fun ! Ma, you must 
know, for you all three came home to- 
gether: is it papa at Percy, or Percy at 
papa ? ” 

“ Ask your own heart.” 

“ It won’t answer. Ma, dear, please 
leave off struggling with that hair— I’ll do 
it for * you presently — and come and sit 
down here, there’s a darling! Now, tell 
me, what were they talking about as you 
came along? ” 

“ Percy said he wanted to consult your 
father about something, that was all.” 

“ So Percy began it. Did he look— like 
— like— well, like a man who is going to — 
do anything— desperate? ” 

“ I will not be catechised, Bessie.” 

“ Don’t mention catechising, please . It 
reminds me of, Who gave you that name? 
and, What is your duty to your neighbor? 
Ma, do you know I once won two dozen 
of gloves on my duty to my neighbor. I 
did ! I couldn’t have won it from you, 
you dear old exact thing! I left a lot 
out, but he — the fellow who lost the 
bet — didn’t know any better, and paid 
up.” 

“And you took what you had not 
earned ? ” 

“ Of course. Men don’t bet with girls 
to win.” 

“ I am sorry that they bet at all on such 
subjects, and more sorry still that your 
aunt should allow ” 

“ Oh, aunty knows what she’s about, 
mamma. If there is only one woman in 
the world who knows exactly what she is 
about, it’s aunty. She told me all about 
Percy when he was in London last June. 
His father was a captain in the navy, and 
his mother was a countess, who takes in 
sewing somewhere near Leicester Square. 
He went to Oxford, got cheated by old 
Willford, is quite a dear, and has not a 
sixpence.” 

“ Well, Bessie, I could not presume to 
contradict such a wonderfully clever per- 
son as your Aunt Rose, so let us drop the 
subject,” said her mother. 


A FAMILY TREE. 


117 


“ But isn’t it so ? ” 

" If your Aunt Rose says it is, of course 
it must be.” 

“ Don’t tease. Aunt Rose didn’t say so 
word for word, and one always touches up 
a little. “Now” (and she ticked off the 
heads of her questioning on her rosy fin- 
ger tops as she went on), “ his father was 
a captain in the navy ? ” 

“ No ; a commander.” 

“ It’s all the same. You call a com- 
mander a commander, and see how cross 
he’ll be! Well, and his mother was a 
French Lady ? ” 

“No; an Italian; but you called her a 
countess just now.” 

“ That was ornamental.” 

“ And the sewing also, I suppose? ” 

“ They were very poor, I heard, dread- 
fully hard up, especially after Captain Tre- 
mayne’s death.” 

“ So they were ; but the widow did not 
sew for a living: she painted. Go on.” 

“ And he went to Oxford? ” 

“ Right, for a wonder.” 

“ And was cheated by old Willford ? ” 

“ No. Sir William Willford had the best 
intentions towards him, but died before 
they were carried out.” 

“ And — what was the next article, ma? ” 
asked Bessie, pausing on her right hand 
thumb. 

“ ‘ Is quite a dear,’ was what you said,” 
Mrs. Raynor replied, dryly. “ If that 
means he is well born, well educated, well 
looking, and well behaved, I agree with 
you; he is a dear.” 

“ And hasn’t got a sixpence ? ” 

“ How many sixpences are there in a 
thousand pounds?” 

“Oh, gracious! Twice twenty, and a 
thousand times that — why, forty thousand, 
to be sure.” 

“ Well, he’s got a position which is worth 
what makes this famous Aunt Rose forty 
thousand times wrong,” said her mother, 
with that calmness w r hich victory gives, 
and hurts so, when one knows it, for what 
it is — sugar-coated spite. 

“ I did not say he had a thousand a 
year,” mused the doctor’s wife to herself, 
as she rose to resume her dressing, “ but 
lie may get it soon.” 


You who are mothers yourselves know 
what this one is driving at. You would 
not love an Aunt Rose who had taken 
your girl from you, and her girlishness 
from her; had let her win bets on the 
catechism, and learn so much about Detri- 
mentals. You would scheme a little, I 
fancy, or even tell a white fib or two to 
get the child back again, and have her 
married and settled near you, and out of 
Aunt Rose’s way. 

Bessie kept her promise, and “ did ” her 
mother’s hair, but in a style which called 
forth repeated protests from that lady. 

“Oh! what will your father say?” she 
cried, as the result was reflected with a 
hand-glass. 

“ That you’re the prettiest old lady in 
the county,” w as the spoiled one’s reply. 

Then, all at once, and apropos of noth- 
ing, she harked back to Percy. 

“ Aunt Rose says he’s a sort of gentle- 
man bailiff to Sir Stephen. Is that true?” 

“ He manages the estate, and every one 
treats him as a gentleman. Many young 
men of excellent family manage estates.” 

“And get a thousand a year?” said 
the girl, as though speaking to her own 
thoughts. 

“ I’m sure that Percy is very lucky. 
What with being rent free, and having the 
run of the garden, and stable, and cellar, 
and all that, and being so looked up to.” 

“ Ah ! but how r long will it all last? ” 

“ Years and years.” 

“ Suppose Sir Stephen were to come 
home, and manage for himself?” 

“ My dear, he mustn’t,” Mrs. Raynor 
replied, dropping her voice. 

“ Mustn’t come back to his own house ! ” 

“ No, dear.” 

“ Why not? 

“ Because he is bound not to do so.” 

“ I don’t understand. I can’t make this 
out a bit,” said Bessie, getting more ex- 
cited than her mother had seen her for 
many a day. “ First you tell me that old 
Sir William did not cheat Percy, but 
wanted to give him everything; and then 
you make out he is only managing the 
place on a salary, and Sir Stephen mustn’t 
come back, and — what does it all mean, 
mamma? If Wharnstead really belongs 


118 


A FAMILY TREE. 


to Sir Stephen, why may he not come and 
live there. I thought he went abroad be- 
cause his father made him, and stayed 
away because he didn’t like England.” 

“ He stays away because he must.” 

“ But why— why ?” 

“ It’s too long a story to tell you now r , 
my dear. He cannot come back as long 
as Mr. Dennis lives.” 

“Mr. Dennis! What on earth has he 
to do with it? I thought that the Den- 
nises and the Willfords were sworn ene- 
mies from generation to generation, and 
did not speak ? ” 

“ Did Mrs. Rose tell you so ? ” 

“ Now it’s no use pretending she’s 
wrong again there. Long before I went 
to London I heard you and papa talking 
about it — about the law suit.” 

Mrs. Raynor, who had begun to look 
alarmed, gave a sigh of relief. 

“That did not mend matters; but the 
trouble, was of older standing. I could not 
tell you all the details, even if I wanted to, 
for I’m not clear about them myself ; but 
this much is certain — Sir Stephen cannot 
come to Wharnstead as long as Mr. Den- 
nis lives. Poor Percy behaved admirably 
under the circumstances, and tried his 
best to make peace, but Mr. Dennis was 
resolute.” 

“ I hate resolute people. It’s only an- 
other word for spite married to obstinacy; 
but I’m glad Percy behaved well.” 

“ And it was against his own interests — 
mind that.” 

“ Of course. He’d be nobody if the other 
returned. Does pa know all about it? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I’ll make him tell me.” 

“ You can ask him.” 

“ If Percy had gone on as he began at 
Oxford, he would be somebody now,” 
Bessie mused. 

“ Oh, my child ! be frank with your 
mother. Has anything passed between 
you ? Do you love him ? ” 

“ Don’t you think, mamma, that I had 
better not answer such a question till he 
asks it? Did girls, when you were young, 
go to their mothers and say that they 
loved their — somebodies, before their 
somebodies asked them? Wouldn’t it be 


slightly awkward if the somebody didn’t 
ask after all ? ” 

“ I shall not seek to force your con- 
fidence, dear,” replied Mrs. Raynor. “You 
can keep it for your Aunt Rose.” 

“ That’s unkind!” 

“ As you will. It’s the last word I shall 
say on the subject.” 

She turned aside, and the next thing 
that happened surprised her. Her daugh- 
ter’s arms were round her neck, and a 
hot, tear-stained face pressed against her 
bosom. 

“Oh, darling! you don’t know what a 
hateful thing I am. I know what’s good 
and right, and I know what seems pleas- 
ant, and — and ” 

“Hush! hush! Bessie. What is right 
is always pleasant in the end.” 

“ Ah ! but the end is always so far off- 
dim, so doubtful.” 

“ I didn’t find it so when I married your 
father.” 

“You were the dearest old Darby and 
Joan,” said Bessie, dashing aside her tears, 
and relapsing into her old reckless way ; 
“ and had lovely children, and got to be 
very nicely off, and all that. Only times 
have changed. It’s nice to have one’s 
things made to order; they fit better, 
though one has to wait for them, and try 
on, and find fault, and take a lot of trouble. 
But one likes a ready-made fortune, mam- 
ma dearest. Girls begin now a length or 
two ahead of where their mothers fin- 
ished.” 

“ I think I understand you, Bessie, and 
I’m sorry.” 

“ For me ? ” 

“ Yes, dear, for you. I have noticed, 
and so has your father, the marked atten- 
tion Mr. Tremayne has paid you; and cer- 
tainly your conduct towards him has not 
been that of one who did not appreciate 
it.” 

“ Speak out — say I have flirted.” 

“ No. I will not say anything so light. 
I say that you have treated him unfairly. 
It may be fashionable; but it’s unkind, 
untrue, unwomanly.” 

“ Why, what have I done?” 

“ You have given him every encourage- 
ment.” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


119 


“ Well?” 

“ Enough of this ! You have vexed me, 
and made me say more than I intended. 
Go your own way, child. Hark! What 
was that noise ? ” 

“ The hall door. 

“ Then he has gone.” 

“ Who?” 

“ Why, Percy.” 

“ And papa has not asked him to din- 
ner ! I hope he has got something to eat 
at home.” 

“ Home ! Poor fellow ! What a home ! ” 

“ I think Wharnstead would make a de- 
lightful home — with all things in propor- 
tion,” said Bessie. 

The doctor’s dinner circle was a wide 
one. Grown-up Mary, grown-up Bessie, a 
“ man ” son from Cambridge, and two 
boys from school. The talk was of the 
decorations we know of; and before their 
repast was over, the rector came in to have 
a serious conversation with Bessie. 

The rector was a slim little man, with 
no-colored hair, furtive eyes, and a weak 
chin, which he was constantly prospecting 
with a finger and thumb, as though doubt- 
ful that it had not got away somehow. 
Bessie had gone too far, he said. He had 
really not contemplated anything so elabor- 
ate when he gave his consent. That cross, 
now. He was not at all sure that people 
would like that cross. Might he venture 
to have it taken down, for he was afraid 
that the bishop ” 

“ That far the bishop ! ” cried Bessie. 
“ Wait till next September, and I’ll show 
him. I’ll have a Harvest Home, with full 
choral service, and a cross of wheat and 
poppies five times as big, and he shall 
preach the sermon ! ” 

“ I am so sorry ; but I really think I 
must insist,” began the rector. 

“ Pull down my cross, and I’ll pull 
down all the rest,” said Bessie, folding her 
arms. 

Then the rector tried to mount the high 
horse. He was not accustomed to be 
spoken to like that. He allowed no inter- 
ference in his church, etc., etc. But the 
stirrups were too lofty, and he never 
reached the saddle. 


Bessie wheedled. How could so clever 
a man allow himself to be talked over by a 
lot of old women. She (Bessie) knew who 
had been interfering. It was those two 
old cats, the Tompkins, and that odious 
Susan Price — jealous because they had not 
had a finger in the pie. Then she told 
him of a bishop who had taken her into 
dinner once in London, and was so nice ; 
who talked decorations, and said it was 
the duty — those were his very words — the 
duty of young ladies to make the churches 
pretty at Christmas. 

They were left alone for this discussion. 
The doctor retired to his study to smoke, 
and thither his wife followed. She had 
not eaten the dinner of a red-breast, in her 
anxiety to know what Percy Tremayne 
had said. “ Had he proposed for Bessie ? ” 

“ Well, yes, and no,” said her better- 
half; and then they told each other what 
had passed upstairs and down. 

“ I’m afraid she don’t care a pin for 
him,” said mamma. 

“ The more fool she,” growled papa. “ Is 
there any one else ? ” 

“ I’m afraid not,” sighed mamma. “ I’m 
afraid she thinks of nothing but herself.” 


CHAPTER IY. 

THE DENNISES AND THE WILLFORDS. 

The Dennises and the Willfords had 
been neighbors for more than a century, 
and never friends. They were of about 
the same standing in the county, of about 
the same means, and had about the same 
following— each in his way. This had not 
been always so. The Willfords were 
famous for going with the times. They 
never exactly “ ratted ” in the vulgar way, 
or changed their course in the eyes of all 
observers ; but somehow were always ready 
with sails trimmed, to catch the breeze 
that was coming. They had been pre- 
rogative men with Charles I.; shining 
lights under the Protectorate; cavaliers 
with the merry Monarch; orange of the 
deepest dye when his brother ran away, 
and threw the great seal into the Thames. 
Afterwards they had been Whig and Tory 
alternatively, with great success, and when 


120 


A FAMILY TREE. 


clever people began to see that there was 
a great future for the Nonconformists, the 
Sir William Willford so often mentioned, 
returned to the faith of his great grand- 
father. Every change feathered the Will- 
ford nest. They got their Baronetcy from 
James II., a rich patent office for three 
generations from Marlborough, a seat in 
Parliament from Pitt, and a bishoprick 
from Lord Melbourne. They were 
“ smart,” these Willfords. 

The Dennises were wild, but lucky. I 
am sorry — as a moral writer— to say that 
their rise was due more to luck than good 
management. They had a talent for 
getting into political hot water. If the 
water was not hot already, they heated it. 
They went for the old Pretender; were 
out in the ’45 ; were Wilkites, Reformers, 
Radicals — everything that was unprofitable 
— but they prospered. Under a lot of 
scrub land (which at one time was worth 
nothing an acre) was discovered coal and 
iron-stone, and the more was dug out, the 
more was found behind. As they pros- 
pered, they steadied down. In the race of 
life the more weight you carry, the faster 
you go. 

The Reform Bill cost the Willfords their 
seat in Parliament. Previous to 1832, 
Wharnstead was a borough, and had three 
voters — the butler, the head game-keeper, 
and their master. The election took place 
in the great dining-room. The butler pro- 
posed and the game-keeper seconded the 
squire or his nominee. Nothing could be 
simpler or more unanimous. No trouble, 
no speechifying, no chance of a petition. 
Wharnstead went glimmering into the 
things that were in company with Gatton 
and Old Sarum. King’s Morton was given 
a member, and chose a Dennis, and kept 
him for years, until late in our own times, 
when the party of the sitting member got 
into trouble, and a seat, more or less, be- 
came a matter of importance. Of all the 
safe seats, King’s Morton was considered 
the safest. The candidate had only to be 
a Dennis, to walk over. Sir William Will- 
ford was strong amongst the dissenters in 
the town, but the country was Dennis to a 
man. 

The nomination — (there were nomina- 


tion days then, and eggs for unpopular 
candidates), was fixed for a Wednesday. 
On the previous Monday, Mr. Dennis 
went down to his committee-room, earlier 
than usual. No one had yet arrived. The 
post had come in, and there was a packe 
on the table addressed to him by name. 
He opened it, and out fell a huge poster, 
printed in red letters, a foot high. Some 
new phase of dennis for ever ! or vote 
for dennis— he thought— a proof of 
which the printer had submitted. But 
inside the wrapper was a letter which ran 
thus: 

“Five hundred copies of the enclosed 
will be posted to-morrow if necessary — one 
on your gates. 

“ Retribution.” 

The huge poster w’as an invention of the 
enemy then. He picked it up, spread it 
out, and read one of the shortest com- 
mandments in the decalogue. It had 
nothing to do with murder or stealing. 
He had killed no woman’s peace of mind, 
or stolen the rights of any man. He was 
a happy father — a proud and true husband, 
and yet the sight of those words made his 
heart sick, and sent his blood creeping 
cold, and then surging like fire through 
his veins. 

Twelve years before this, a worn-out ad- 
venturer, a thing that had not even pas- 
sion as an excuse, won a friendless girl 
who had a small fortune. He spent her 
money, and he wrecked her life. This 
done, he abandoned her, and finding it 
convenient for another matrimonial specu- 
lation to die, he departed this vale of tears, 
and started again in life under another 
name. His widow became Mrs. Dennis, 
and had her reward. His wife (No. 2) 
gave him his, by eloping with a sergeant 
in the Life Guards. Then the scoundrel 
saw that there was something to be made 
out of No. 1, but it was rather late. He 
had about half one lung left, and was 
familiar with snakes. If you do not know 
what “snakes” can do for a man, read 
Mrs. Skaggs' Husbands , by Bret Harte. 
But he did all the mischief he could. He 
told a tale which cross-examination could 


A FAMILY TREE. 


121 


have torn to rags, got ten pounds to hold 
his tongue as to what was really true (in 
that he had lied in saying, four years ago, 
that the devil had got his own) spent the 
money in brandy, and got one snake too 
many. 

The threatened suit for a divorce died 
with the petitioner, but it so happened 
that a clerk in the office of his attorney 
(with whom, by-the-by, he broke faith by 
taking those ten pounds) “ bittered him- 
self” and took service with the Parliamen- 
tary Agents who acted for Sir William 
Willford. The ruling maxim of this young 
man was succeed — never mind how, and 
there was a douceur of a hundred guineas 
to be got by succeeding at this election. 

What share — if any — Sir William had in 
dragging its hidden skeleton out of his 
opponent’s happy home, was never rightly 
measured. After the mischief w 7 as done, 
he wrote what some of his friends called 
“ a very handsome letter,” to Mr. Dennis, 
in which he declared upon his honor that 
he ignored, repudiated, and deplored what 
had happened. 

“ Can you fight it down ? ” asked the 
chairman of John Dennis’s committee, to 
whom, as in duty bound, he showed the 
placard and accompanying threat. 

“Yes,” he said, “but it would kill my 
wife.” 

“ The scoundrel writes he will post a 
copy on your gate. He strikes at you 
through her.” 

“ And she — God help me ! — does not 
even yet know that her first husband was 
alive when we married. It was all kept 
from her. We were married abroad, and 
I pretended that it would be better for the 
child we expected, for us to go through a 
civil marriage in England. She considered 
it as a mere form to record the religious 
ceremony. What is to be done ? ” 

What indeed! There are some loath- 
some creatures crawling about this fair 
world, which become more loathsome yet, 
as we crush the life out of them. There 
are forms of cowardice which ennoble. 
John Dennis took the only safe course. 
What to him was party or prestige in 
comparison to a loved and loving wife’s 
peace ? He withdrew his name as a can- 


didate for the honor of ^presenting the 
free and independent electors of King’s 
Morton, and the lord of Wharnstead won 
the prize of his life. 

The reason given for Mr. Dennis’s re- 
tirement was that the health of his wife 
required them to live in a milder climate 
for the next two years at least. The 
doctors had ordered her to the south of 
France or Madeira, and this was perfectly 
true. She had been ailing for some time, 
but was one of those cheerful, uncom- 
plaining women, whom cheerfulness and 
pluck kept up to the last. She made the 
doctors promise not to tease her husband; 
she would get strong again in the spring. 
As good luck would have it, Doctor Raynor 
dropped into the committee-room that 
morning on purpose to catch Mr. Dennis, 
and tell him he could no longer obey his 
wife, and keep her real condition from 
him. If she passed another winter in 
King’s Morton he would not answer for 
the consequences. This settled it. 

But a political party does not like to be 
thrown over at the last moment. Why 
had not “ Dennis for Ever ” found out this 
before ? A pretty time to resign ! What 
were madam’s lungs to Mr. Swop, the 
grocer, who was looking for a place in the 
excise for his son-in-law; or to Mrs. 
Stamper, who hoped that her vote would 
get her an extra twenty pounds a year for 
keeping the post office? There was plenty 
of grumbling, speculation, and surmise, 
and at last the miserable truth oozed out, 
the opposite of heaven knows how. Per- 
haps the young man from Great George 
Street, intoxicated by success — or gin — 
had boasted of his cleverness ; perhaps the 
printer of the placard could not keep a 
secret. 

The scandal became public property, 
and then, and not till then, did Sir William 
Willford ignore, repudiate, and deplore it. 
It reached its object, and to his dying day 
John Dennis believed that his prophecy 
was a true one — that it killed her. Certain 
it is that her malady took a severer form 
soon afterwards, notwithstanding her re- 
moval to a warmer clime, and the summer 
sun, which was to have made her stronger, 
shone only on her grave. 


122 


A FAMILY TREE. 


In the meantime the inevitable defence 
had been made, and the- equally inevitable 
reaction followed. Sir William found that 
his triumph was a dear one. Only a select 
band believed he had nothing to do with 
that placard. He was just one of those 
cold-blooded, self-righteous men, who could 
do such a thing, and think that he had 
pleased God thereby. Besides, he bore 
several grudges against Dennis. 

This takes us back to the first feud in 
the present generation — between Dennis 
and Willford. 

A Willford had once owned those lands 
full of hidden coal and ironstone, from 
which Dennis now drew the greater part 
of his wealth. A railroad company, of 
which Sir William was a director, wanted 
a thin slice of them, and the owner w’as 
obliged to sell ; but when it came to mak- 
ing a title, not a scrap of parchment would 
John Dennis produce. Sixty years ad- 
verse possession — tw^o hundred and sixty, 
if required — was his title. If they liked it, 
they could take it, and if they didn’t, they 
could let it alone. He did not want to 
sell. They took the land, and filed a bill 
in Chancery against him, to force a dis- 
closure of deeds which they averred did, 
would, should, and ought to exist, and if 
not, why not, and how otherwise ? But 
he beat them. Sixty years adverse pos- 
session is a mighty good title to hold by — 
the railroad company did not want a 
better — but its director had found out 
something which suited him to follow up. 
Its attorney had unearthed an old deed of 
grant made by King James I. of blessed 
memory (did he not root up witchcraft, 
and put out all the tobacco pipes?) to one, 
Stephen Willford, of an estate which in- 
cluded the lands now in question. The 
high Court of Chancery was prayed to 
make John Dennis play a parchment 
against that. “ Sixty years adverse pos- 
session,” repeated John Dennis, as dog- 
gedly as Samuel Jones, his attorney, could 
put it; and “bill dismissed, with costs,” 
said the Master of the Rolls. 

The case made quite a stir in King’s 
Morton, and people took sides. The rail- 
way — it was soon discovered — was but the 
stalking horse. The real fight was Will- 


ford against Dennis. There was the 
Wouldn’t-ites and the Couldn’t-ites. It’s 
absurd said the Wouldn’t-ites, to expect a 
man of John Dennis’s position to rake out 
the contents of his monument chest at the 
will and pleasure of a common carrier, be- 
cause he wants a beggarly acre or two of 
his land. He’s quite right to refuse. My 
dear sir — whispered the Couldn’t-ites — 
you may rest assured that if this young 
man was able to comply with the com- 
pany’s demand, he would be very glad to 
do so. What? a county gentleman con- 
tent to show no better title than a gipsy 
squatter! Depend upon it there is a 
screw loose somewhere. 

But the young man stuck to his text 
“I am the grandson and heir-at-law of 
John Dennis, who was the eldest son and 
heir-atrlaw of another John Dennis, and 
that’s enough. My great grandfather, my 
grandfather and I, have held this land 
against all the world. Anyone who buys 
it of me can do the same. This is the 
ground I take — move me if you can.” 
And they couldn’t. 

John Dennis had only recently come 
into his property, and young as he was, 
was married. His father had died in his 
grandfather’s lifetime, and he had had a 
minority of some five years during which 
the Willfords enjoyed undisputed sway. 
It made Sir William sore to think that one 
of the first acts of “ that forward boy,” as 
he called his hereditary rival ; was to beat 
him. Well, they might have a return 
match — that was some consolation. There 
w’as a possibility of picking holes even in 
the Statute of Limitations, and time might 
show w’here that reputed loose screw w^as. 
He named a son (who was born to him 
about this time, after some years of matri- 
mony unblessed with male issue) Stephen, 
after king James’ grantee. There w r as 
luck he thought in the name. One 
Stephen Willford had obtained the prop- 
erty, and another might regain it. Regain 
not only those “ beggarly acres,” lately in 
question, but the whole rich estate. When 
he grew up that Stephen Willford the 
second should study the law, and find out 
the weak joint in the enemy’s coat of mail, 
if it had not been discovered before. 


A FAMILY TREE. 


123 


If you have skipped this episode, you 
had better turn back and read it ; or shut 
up the book. According to the Statute of 
Limitations a man who has held land as 
his own for twenty years against everyone 
able to turn him out, acquires an absolute 
right to it. Infants i.e. young ladies and 
gentlemen under age, are not “ able ” liti- 
gants. Add forty to the twenty and you 
provide against two generations of possible 
minors, and are pretty safe. Now the 
Willford who took that royal grant died 
in the year 1626. The statute aforesaid 
does not “ run ” — as the lawyers say — 
against people who live “ beyond the seas.” 
They also are not “ able,” but this excep- 
tion did not help the family at Wharnstead 
for four generations of them had been born 
and died there. 

Under these circumstances Sir William’s 
lawyers advised him to give up all thoughts 
of ousting John Dennis; but the hope, 
born of the wish, remained; until he be- 
came almost a monomaniac upon the sub- 
ject and made a genealogist of his heir as 
soon as he could read. 

The “ forward boy ” won his law-suit, 
and jumped over his elder rival’s head into 
the high places which his forefathers had 
filled, one after the other M.P. for King’s 
Morton, chairman of the County Sessions, 
High Sheriff of the county — to say nothing 
of master of the county fox hounds which 
was not in Sir William’s line. Baronet as 
he was, this gentleman found that he had 
to “ take a back seat,” — and he did not 
like it. He was known tip have done 
several dirty things in a strictly pious way 
to people whom he did not like ; so that 
when the electioneering scandal we know 
of, came out, a good many people shook 
their heads, and even his own party wished 
he had spoken sooner. 

His first impulse was certainly not to 
deplore the news. If it were true young 
John Dennis was illegitimate, there would 
be no male Dennis left to defend the 
coveted wealth when his father died. This 
amicable hope was nipped in the bud 
when all the facts came out, and the sec- 
ond marriage was proved. Nor was his 
first act to repudiate the young man from 
Great George street. He did not have 


him ducked in the nearest horse-pond 
and kicked out of the town. He did not 
report him to his employers so that they 
might discharge him from their service as 
they would certainly have done ; and he 
did give him the price of his success. 

“No understrapper,” said John Dennis, 
through his clenched teeth, when he had 
signed his resignation, “would dare do 
such a thing without permission, and as 
there is a God above me ! I’ll bring his 
master to a bitter reckoning. Some day 
I’ll have him on the hip, and then ” 

No one who could have seen the face of 
the speaker would have liked to change 
places with Sir William Willford. 

After the death of his wife Mr. Dennis 
returned to his old home and for the sake 
of his children resumed his position in the 
county — all but the seat for King’s Morton. 
Nothing would induce him to contest that. 
Young John might, when he came of age; 
his father — never. 

So things went on quietly enough until 
Stephen Willford and young John Dennis 
were both in their twenty-first year. Sir 
William was a man of sixty — John Dennis 
the elder twenty summers his junior, and 
rode to hounds like a boy. The baronet's 
mania for forcing the Squire’s title had 
only increased with his age. The Squire 
had not forgotten his vow. Only a spark 
was required to light up the old feud, and 
this was struck just six years and a month 
before Percy Tremayne wrote that letter 
to New York. 


CHAPTER Y. 

ON THE HIP. 

When the Dennis-Willford feud burst 
out again, young John (usually called 
Jack) Dennis, was a full sub-lieutenant of 
light dragoons, and Stephen Willford a law 
student in his second year. The two 
young men had been brought up as differ- 
ently as only sons — both heirs of fine 
estates— could possibly be. A boy, in the 
estimation of Sir William, was a sort of 
unconvicted criminal, who, unless watched, 
confined, and coerced, would give way to 


124 


A FAMILY TREE. 


the original sin within him, and go straight 
to perdition. A boy, according to Mr. 
Dennis, should be trusted, and left to rough 
it a little on his own account, so that if 
there were any vice in him, it might show 
itself, and be dealt with before it took 
root. Under these systems, Jack joined 
the depot of his regiment a smart young 
officer, for whom snares of ordinary con- 
struction were spread in vain ; and Stephen 
went to the Middle Temple a perfect 
greenhorn. Jack, familiar with the use 
of money since he was at school, knew 
when to keep it and when to spend it, like 
a gentleman; Stephen, obliged to account 
for every half-crown of an inadequate al- 
lowance, was forced into deceit to cover 
over unrighteous disbursements^ and into 
practices which would have thrilled his 
father with horror to the core, to provide 
ways and means for even harmless expen- 
diture. Jack had bought experience by 
retail ; Stephen was “ let in for it ” all at 
once. 

Playing cards and betting were Sir 
William’s favorite detestations. He hoped 
that by keeping his one ewe lamb short of 
cash, he would take the best means to 
keep his little fleece unspotted. Alas for 
such precautions! By this time Master 
Stephen had a book upon the principal 
events of the Turf, and was a professor 
of “ Loo.” 

Playing “ Loo ” is an expensive accom- 
plishment — doubly expensive. It is an 
accomplishment which costs a good deal to 
acquire, and acquired, becomes expensive 
to some one else, when played as Master 
Stephen played it. He had cast his bread 
upon the waters — in the shape of taking 
Miss second-hand, and standing upon a 
ten of trumps, in his unsophisticated days 
— and it at last came back to him in pools 
provided by others. He now played a 
patient, cool game, and cultivated a fine 
scent for parties on which his skill would 
be likely to prevail. There was a good 
deal of “ Loo ” playing in the Temple in 
Michaelmas Term, 1868. 

An old schoolfellow of Jack Dennis was 
then called to the Bar. He had known 
Jack “ at home,” had shot many a par- 
tridge and pheasant on Mr. Dennis’s land, 


and was a prime favorite with that gentle- 
man. You are “ called ” after dinner, and 
give a card-party, but your friends who 
are not of your Inn of Court may not dine 
with you. They come in when the Ben- 
chers have retired, drink your health, and 
usually adjourn to your chambers, and — 
make a night of it. Jack got leave, and 
came up from Canterbury to do his chum 
honor, and see how he looked in his wig. 

“ You’re safe to be Lord Chancellor,” he 
said, slapping Chris Tomlyn on the back, 
as they left the grand old hall, “if you 
look as wise and that for another forty 
years.” 

As he spoke, a fellow student of the 
coming judge sidled up, and asked leave to 
bring a friend. “Very nice person — good 
family and that; son of Sir William Will- 
ford, of Wharnstead.” 

The speaker was a known tuft-hunter, 
and had himself sponged for an invitation, 
but, really, if a man cannot be friendly on 
his “ call ” night, when can he be? Per- 
mission was given, and a general flank 
movement to Chris Tomlyn’s chambers 
was made in good order. 

Dessert discussed, and coffee over, the 
decks were cleared, and tables drawn out. 
Some sat down to whist, some preferred 
to talk, and others called for “ Loo.” The 
host was, by preference, a whistite, but 
sacrificed himself to make a party for the 
livelier game. They sat down, seven — 
mine host, Jack Dennis, Stephen Willford, 
his introducer, Mr. Steadman, a rather 
noisy barrister, named Plowden, and two 
others, named respectively Stark and 
Berresford. Now Jack and Stephen, 
though of course not on friendly, were on 
bowing terms — as indeed their fathers 
were— so that this meeting on neutral 
grounds was not embarrassing to either. 

They began mildly — sixpences up, and 
the dealer eighteenpence — four and six- 
pence the “Loo,” nine shillings two 
“ Loos,” and so on ; quite enough for fun. 
But even so the noisy barrister lost several 

pounds, and swore that the wrs in the 

cards. Hadn’t Chris another pack? Chris 
had, and laughingly produced it, saying, 

“ It’s the same pattern, though, and 
won’t do you much good, I’m afraid, es- 


A FAMILY TREE. 


125 


pecially if you go on playing upon no- 
thing.” 

“ I shall play as I like, confound you!” 
said the victim, in good humor. “ You 
win, and mind your business.” 

“ Oh, I haven’t won. No one has won 
much but Mr. Willford.” 

“ You generally do win, I think,” said 
Berresford, who had evaded an introduc- 
tion to Stephen when the party assembled. 

There was some horse play with the dis- 
carded pack, which got tossed about (a 
fair quantity of champagne had been 
tossed, too), but were eventually gathered 
up, placed on a sideboard, where a flask of 
iced water stood, and on went the garn^e 
with their successors of the same pattern. 

“ Didn’t I tell you there was no luck in 
that other pack ? ” laughed Plowden, as he 
landed two-thirds of a good pool. “ Now 
these are excellent cards.” 

“ When you hold the queen and knave,” 
Willford replied, “ most cards are.” 

He was by no means a winner now. 
That queen and knave “ Looed ” him and 
another for three pounds each. 

For this unusually rich pool there were 
four players, and another two Loos fol- 
lowed. Twelve pounds in the pool ! Un- 
prepared for such a rise, they had agreed 
to play “ club law,” which means, my dear 
uninitiated readers, that every one must 
play when a club is turned up trumps. As 
there are only three tricks, there must be 
at least four Loos — with seven players — 
when all are “ in.” Clubs came up. Four 
Loos, four times twelve — forty-eight 
pounds in the pool, and Plowden happy! 

Stephen Willford got up, crossed the 
room, and took a glass of iced water, 
whilst the cards were shuffled for the next 
deal. 

Chris Tomlyn was dealer. Berresford 
was first hand, Steadman next, Willford 
next, then Plowden, Jack Dennis, and 
Stark, in their order, as I have named 
them. 

“ I don’t play,” said Berresford. 

“ I will,” said Steadman. 

“ So do I,” said Willford. 

“ Nothing to do with it,” said Plowden. 

Jack rapped on the table, and turned 
down his cards. 


“ Three players,” said the dealer. 

“ Settle it amongst yourselves,” said 
Stark, throwing up his hand. 

Willford “ played his own,” Jack drew 
two cards, and so did Steadman. 

“ Well, I hope you fellows will divide,” 
said the host, “ this has got too high for 
amusement.” 

There are various rules of “ Loo.” Those 
which this party played were: 1st. If you 
have the ace and the lead, lead it. 2nd. 
If you have two trumps lead the highest. 
3rd. Beat the card played before you if 
you can. 4th. Always follow suit. 5th. 
When you have won a trick, lead a trump 
if you have one. 

The nine of diamonds was the trump. 

“ Curse of Scotland ! ” cried Plowden, 
“ no luck for me.” 

And he was right. He had two small 
spades, and the king of hearts. No use 
going in on that. 

The big pool caused a silence, and some 
of those who were not in the whist, 
gathered round to see it lost and won. 

“ Sixteen pounds a trick,” said Plowden, 
“ go it.” 

Steadman played the knave of spades. 
He hadn’t two trumps. 

Willford trumped it with the ten of 
diamonds. 

Jack threw down the king of spades. 

“ One for Willford. Trump after trick,” 
said Plowden getting excited. “ Now 
comes the tug of war.” 

Willford played the ace of trumps. 

Jack exclaimed, “The dev— ” stopped 
short, and got very pale. 

“ What a hand ! ” said Plowden. “ If it 
had been his lead, he’d have Looed the 
lot. Go on old man (this to Jack) you 
can’t beat the ace of trumps.” 

“Of course not— if— Look here, Chris, 
there’s some mistake.” 

“ No mistake at all,” cried impatient 
Plowden. “ Steadman led a spade, Will- 
ford trumped it, you played your king. 
Now Willford leads the ace of diamonds. 
Do go on.” 

“I hold that card,” replied Jack very 
quietly, “ and here it is ! ” 

As the playwrights have it — Tableau! 

If a bomb shell had fallen on the table, 


126 


A FAMILY TREE. 


it could not have produced a greater effect 
than did that second little red figure in the 
centre of a harmless piece of pasteboard. 

“ The pack must be wrong,” gasped the 
host. “Pin so sorry! Is it possible we 
have been playing with two aces of dia- 
monds, without knowing it?” 

It was possible. In “ Loo ” the pack is 
never dealt out. With seven players only, 
more than thirty-one cards are seldom 
needed, including the trump. It was just 
possible. Chris counted. Fifty-two. Then 
what card was missing. He laid them 
out in suits. There was no three of clubs. 

“I’ll tell you how it is,” said Chris, 
“ when you fellows were larking with the 
old pack, the ace of diamonds must have 
got mixed up somehow — left on the table 
I suppose— with the new ones.” 

“ Then where’s the three of clubs,” asked 
Berresford, the cynic. 

As though by common consent all rose 
to look for it. 

They found it under Stephen Willford’s 
chair with the marks of the sole of a boot 
upon it. 

There was a dead silence. 

Plowden took up the other pack and ex- 
amined it. 

“ No ace of diamonds here ! ” 

“ Well, I suppose we must play the hand 
over again,” said Steadman. 

“ No, no,” cried several at once. “ This 
must be cleared up first.” 

“ I shall certainly decline to play any 
more until it is,” said Berresford. 

“ Really, really,” expostulated Steadman 
— “ amongst gentlemen ” — 

“ The best may make a mistake,” the 
cynic interrupted, “ but there is no mistake 
here.” 

“ By which, I suppose, you mean to in- 
sinuate that we are not all gentlemen?” 
Said Willford, who had stood in sullen 
silence since the discovery of the card un- 
der his chair. 

“I never insinuate,” was the cutting 
reply, more to the company than the in- 
quirer. “ What I have to say I speak out ; 
and I say this: — I will not sit down again 
with Mr. Willford.” 

“ You made another spiteful remark 
before we began,” muttered Willford 


through ashen lips. “Why accuse me? 
It’s between Mr. Dennis and myself. Do 
you refuse to play with Mr. Dennis? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ And you call that fair? ” 

“ Look here ! fair is fair — if you come to 
that,” interposed Plowden. “ Mr. Dennis 
sat opposite to me, drank his liquor, and 
smoked his bacca like a man. He didn’t 
get up for water, or anything else.” 

Then all remembered that Willford had 
gone for water, to the very spot where the 
discarded pack was. 

“ I’ll answer for my friend,” cried Stead- 
man. “ Tuft hunter as he was, he could 
be loyal to his tuft.” 

“ And I for mine,” said Chris. 

All this time Jack Dennis had not said 
a word. It never struck him that he had 
to say anything. The mere possibility 
that he could be suspected of cheating 
never occurred to him. Not even when 
Willford said it was between them. There 
was some mistake. He thought it rather 
an impertinence of Mr. Plowden to take 
his part. But after all — it was no business 
of his. He was a stranger to all but one. 
Let them fight it out amongst themselves. 
So he lit a cigar. 

“ You are all against me. I wish I’d 
never come,” growled Willford. “ I had 
that ace fairly, and I’ve a right to two- 
thirds of that pool.” 

“ Let him take it,” cried four voices, 
“ and go.” 

“No, I wont; but if you like I’ll play 
the hand over again.” 

“ That is out of the question,” replied 
the host. “Let every man withdraw his 
stake, and ” 

“You shall hear from me about this, 
Mr. Tomlyn,” Willford muttered. 

“ As you please, sir.” 

“ Oh, I say, Chris, can’t this be stop- 
ped ? ” It was J ack who spoke. “ Mr. 
Willford is a neighbor of ours, as you 
know. Our governors ain’t good friends 
and that, but hang it! he’s a gentle- 

man. I don’t suppose he’d be here if he 
wasn’t. There’s some mistake. Why, 
suppose that card had been found under 
my chair! Would any man dare to — to — 
Oh ! there’s some mistake.” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


127 


Dead silence! 

“ Well, it’s no use staying here, Stead- 
man,’* said his friend. “ It will be a les- 
son to me not to play cards again with 
people who don’t know how to lose their 
money.” 

“ And with me not to play with those 
who know too well how to win other 
people’s,” said Berresford, as the door 
closed behind the pair. “ My dear fellow,” 
the speaker added to his host, “I know 
him. He always wins. And the event of 
to-night throws a curious light upon some- 
thing I heard yesterday. He has young 
fellows to play in his own rooms, and his 
cards are always of the same pattern . 
Take your change out of that I ” 

“ It’s a bore to have one’s night broken 
up, by such a skunk,” Plowden loquitur. 
“ What do you say ? It’s early yet. Shall 
we play that hand again without him ? ” 

“ Certainly we will.” 

And to it they fell, until the small 

hours. ^ 

***** 

John Dennis wrote to the newly-fledged 
counsel, congratulating him on his “call,” 
and wishing him every success in the pro- 
fession he had chosen. 

In reply— for want of anything else to 
say, after thanks for good wishes — Chris 
wrote : — 

“ I suppose Jack has told you all about 
the rather unpleasant scene we had at my 
call party. I must own that at first I was 
sorry for young Willford, but have heard 
things since which make me fear he is a 
bad lot. I didn’t like his trying to drag 
Jack into it. I say ‘trying’ because, al- 
though Jack was a stranger to everybody 
but myself, no one could look at him for 
a moment and think he could cheat at 
cards.” 

This was intended to make things pleas- 
ant for Jack; but it brought Jack’s father 
up to town by the night express in a fury. 

“ Let it blow over ! ” he exclaimed, re- 
peating his son’s conclusion, when the 
whole story was told. “These things 
never blow over. They blow about, get 
magnified, distorted, and jump up again 
when you least expect them. Blow over! 
Would you leave the bite of a mad dog to 


blow over? I know these Willfords. In 
a week or two their names will have slunk 
out of it, and yours be left in. The scan- 
dal will go from mouth to mouth, and 
some day it will be, ‘ Oh ! Dennis of the 

th — I know; man who was mixed up 

in a card case in the Temple ! ’ Good God, 
Jack! Mixed up in a card case! That’s 
what will be said — only that; but the im- 
plication is mixed up in it as the cheat.” 

“ I should like to hear any one say so ! ” 
Jack broke out. 

“ They don’t say so. Be quiet. You 
cannot settle those sort of things with 
fists, or even pistols. I asked you just 
now, would you leave the bite of a mad 
dog to ‘ blow over? ’ No; you would bum 
it out as soon as ever you could heat an 
iron hot enough.” 

“ But you see, dad,” Jack observed, “ I’m 
not bitten. None of the men said a word 
against me — ask Chris — and we went on 
playing when Willford left without the 
slightest trouble, and parted the best of 
friends. Don’t you think that, under all 
the circumstances, it would be as well to 
let the fellow alone. Qui s' excuse — 
s'accuse .” 

“ You were a set of young fools to let 
him off so easily. If one of you had kicked 
him down stairs, it would have been all 
right. I’m old enough to be your father, 
Jack, and I know the world you live in. 
It don’t bring logic and French proverbs 
to bear on these cases ; it supplies rougher 
tests, and judges by results. It don’t ask, 
if they turn up again, who was right and 
who was wrong. It wants to know who 
had his nose pulled, or was expelled his 
club, or obliged to leave the country. If 
you can say, or your friends say for you, 
‘ Yes, there was a card case in the Temple; 
Dennis of the th, and Stephen Will- 

ford each held the ace of diamonds, and 
the latter’s name was struck off the books 
of the Inn ’ — why, then you’re safe. If you 
go upon your blow over principles, the 
least that will happen is for you both to be 
set down as blacklegs. Good God, Jack! 
Suppose it were to come to your colonel’s 
ears, what would he say ? I know. He’d 
hear you out, and then say, ‘Well, sir, 
what have you done?’ ” 


128 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“ What am I to do ? ” 

Easy-going Jack hated the idea of mak- 
ing a fuss; but felt that his father was 
right. Something had to be done . 

“ State the case to the benchers of his 
Inn, and the committee of his club— if he 
have one,” replied Mr. Dennis, “ as a com- 
mencement. When we know what they 
think of it, we shall be able to judge what 
else should follow.” 


CHAPTER YI. 

BANISHED. 

Mr. Steadman was a small individual, 
with what he was pleased to consider large 
responsibilities. Any little pie into which 
he could manage to wriggle a finger, as- 
sumed in his eyes the dimensions of a royal 
pasty of exquisite flavor, and for which 
the mouth of all mankind were watering. 
His wit, like some rare vintages, required 
time to ripen; and thus it was that his 
choicest repartees, his most sarcastic 
thrusts, were produced the next morning, 
in the absence of their intended victim. 

When he sought his couch on the night 
of Mr. Tomlyn’s call party, he perceived 
how completely he might have turned the 
tables upon those who had assailed his 
friend. It was rather late, but not too 
late, to deal the necessary discomfiture. 
By his diplomacy, Stephen Willford might 
be pulled through with flying colors. And 
so he called on Stephen after breakfast. 
He found him in a curious frame of mind. 
Not angry with Chris, w'ho had all but 
showm him the door; not indignant with 
Plowden, who had rapped out the most 
serious imputation against him ; not seek- 
ing satisfaction from the cynical gentleman 
who had remarked at the outset that he 
generally did win; but furious against 
Jack Dennis, who alone had said a good 
word for him. 

“ How dared he put on those d d 

supercilious ways ? It was as much against 
him as me. Does he think that because 
he’s an officer, and wears a fine uniform, 
that he’s to run rough shod over me? 
Let him look out! I know a good bit 
more about him than he thinks. D d 


upstart ! Let him look out, that’s all ! 99 
fumed Stephen. 

“ Now, if you will place the affair en- 
tirely in my hands,” Mr. Steadman began, 
first finger on thumb, “ I will ” 

“ Leave me alone,” was the ungracious 
reply; and beyond some further abuse of 
J ack, the speaker would not return to the 
subject. 

Nevertheless, Mr. Steadman was not to 
be denied. If Willford did not know his 
own interests, so much the worse for him. 
He paid Chris Tomlyn a visit, and put 
forth all his little diplomacy. An expres- 
sion of regret, however guarded, would, he 
felt sure, satisfy his friend. And it was 
really so desirable for all parties that the 
matter should be arranged, etc., etc., etc. 

Chris thought so too, but at present he 
had no regret to express, other than that 
Mr. Steadman should have inadvertently 
introduced a person w r ho was so unfortu- 
nate as to incur the suspicion of every 
gentleman in the room. 

Mr. Steadman had a “ happy thought ” 
half an hour afterwards, the result of 
which would have crushed Mr. Tomlyn to 
the earth. This was before the arrival of 
John Dennis. 

The next day but one Chris had to re- 
turn the visit, with Jack’s (or rather his 
father’s) ultimatum ; and this was a thun- 
der-bolt! The poor little man could not 
cope with it alone — it was too great a re- 
sponsibility. To advise— no matter how 
— would surely get him into trouble. The 
sane idea that he might wash his hands of 
it, and leave the principals to fight it out, 
like the Kilkenny cats, if necessary, never 
occurred to him. It was one of his re- 
sponsibilities. 

He found out the barrister who had be- 
come Stephen’s sponsor when he was en- 
tered as a student at law, and unbosomed 
his grief. That gentleman, not being pre- 
possessed with the management of his in- 
formant, and, like a sensible creature, un- 
willing to put his own fingers in the fire, 
wrote to Sir William, and so it all came 
out. 

The reader has discovered, long before 
this, that there w r as some wisdom, but more 


A FAMILY TREE. 


129 


spite, in the conclusions of John Dennis. 
Also, that the evidence against young Will- 
ford was far from conclusive. He had got 
up for water — he seldom drank wine — he 
went to the place w r here the rejected pack 
had been placed; but no one could say 
that he touched it, and half of them had 
their faces turned that way. A man who 
had stolen a good card, and wanted to get 
rid of a bad one, would hardly drop it un- 
der his own chair — would either pocket it, 
or throw it as far from him as possible. 
If the cynic had really heard “ shady 
things ” of Willford, why did he not warn 
his friends at once ? Why did he sit down 
to play with a “ leg.” If it were a sin to 
have cards all of the same pattern, Chris 
Tomlyn — dear, honorable old Chris — was 
a sinner. A man with any spirit in him 
would have knocked somebody down. 

Well, Stephen Willford had no spirit in 
him. Any that he might once have had 
w T as squeezed out of him by his education. 
To become a good boy, he was made a 
sneak ; to avoid one sort of temptation as 
a man, he was left naked and defenceless 
against the assaults of a dozen. He did 
play to win. What then ? He lived upon 
his winnings, as any one who wields a 
steady cue, or plays a steady game, may 
do, and not forfeit his right to be con- 
sidered a gentleman. There was a good 
deal to be said, you see, for Stephen Will- 
ford. 

But he marred his own defence; was 
sullen when he should have been frank; 
vindictive when he ought to have been 
conciliatory; talked of actions at law, and 
prosecutions for libel, when the question 
was one of honor. 

His father — aged, as we know, and pre- 
judiced against all sorts of play — gave him 
no help. A man who would play cards 
for money (according to Sir William) 
would cheat at cards for money. To play 
was to be a gambler — to be a gambler, a 
blackleg. His son had disobeyed his most 
earnest, most anxiously-pressed orders. 
That was bad enough. His son had placed 
him at the mercy of his hereditary enemy. 
That was his worst crime. And his here- 
ditary enemy was pushing him home. 
Something had to be done . Would taking 

9 


his name off the books of his Inn suffice? 
Ho. The heir of a baronetcy and twelve 
thousand a year might do that, and no one 
ask why. He was never intended to make 
his salt at the Bar. Would a written and 
signed acknowledgment that Sub-Lieuten- 
ant Dennis had played honorably, do? 
No ; that was not required. 

Oh! the sting in this refusal! John 
Dennis the elder was inexorable. What 
had to be done was to mark Stephen Will- 
ford’s guilt; and the compact was made 
for him by one who admitted it, and dis- 
owned him. He was to go abroad, and 
there remain ; otherwise his case was to 
go before the benchers. 

Unnatural! unjust! improbable! As 
you will. This is a novel. If you are 
reading it openly, if it has been brought 
home by papa, or ordered from the library 
by mamma, you have had no personal ex- 
perience of how the Stephen Willfords of 
another world than yours are created, or 
what they may be made to endure. If you 
are reading it on the sly, you know, perhaps, 
how unnatural and unjust the sort of 
“ serious person,” like Sir William Willford, 
can be. His son was completely in his 
power. No entail, no settlement protected 
him to the value of a shilling, and there 
was no disposition to temper that power 
with mercy. 

As soon as Sir William appeared on the 
scene, the case assumed a new aspect. 
The principals disappeared — Jack drifted 
out of it as accuser, Stephen was not heard 
in self-defence. His own father, acting 
-upon the principle already stated, pleaded 
guilty for him, and Jack’s dictated the 
sentence. 

When this was communicated to 
Stephen, he became frantic with rage, 
forced his way into Sir William’s presence, 
upbraided, abused, and, as some said, 
struck him. Be this as it may, father and 
son never met again ; and Percy Tremayne 
— the distant cousin — was sent for, to be 
made heir of Wharnstead. 

If the will already mentioned had been 
signed, Stephen would have received an 
annuity granted thus : — 

To my son Stephen , who , after having 

9 


130 


A FAMILY TREE. 


disgraced and humiliated me by indulgence 
in a sin against which I had made it a 
life-long duty to warn him , accused me as 
the cause of his ruin — whose own hand 
has destroyed the ties of nature between us 
— who has not the ability to earn a living, 
or the honesty to deserve an inheritance, 
but whom I may not, as a Christian, leave 
to starve — I direct that my executor, do 
pay as I have done hitherto, pay the sum 
of two hundred and fifty pounds, by four 
quarterly payments every year, so long as 
the said Stephen may continue to reside 
abroad . 

Whether in his secret thoughts Sir Wil- 
liam admitted that he had gone the wrong 
way to work with young men, and deter- 
mined, however late, to change his course, 
or whether Percy went the right way to 
work with him, and would not put up with 
what his son had endured, matters not. 
There came a great change over Wharn- 
stead, at which people who had given 
Percy a six weeks leave of favor, marvelled 
greatly. He hunted, shot, went to the 
county ball, and danced. He even ran up 
to town, avowedly to see the Derby — and 
came back welcomed ! 

The best of fathers and mothers some- 
times fail to realize the fact that children 
grow into boys and girls, and these into 
men and women, with anything like the 
clearness with which the young people 
themselves appreciate the change, or pro- 
vide what the change requires. Stephen 
Willford gave his parent no assistance in 
this respect. He was a timid child; a 
frightened, sly boy; a spiritless, cunning 
man. He stood a rating, or sneaked to 
evade one, at twenty as at ten. The 
wholesome moral tonic of a big school was 
denied him. There was no break in his 
home tutelage. So it went on, unmodified 
by time. 

But when Percy came to take his vacant 
place, there was a break indeed ! Without 
ever failing in proper respect for his pa- 
tron’s age and position, he gave him very 
clearly to understand that twelve thousand 
a year would not buy him — that he was 
to be respected too. 

Before long, Sjr William got to be a little 


afraid of his new heir — so attentive, and 
yet so independent; so frank, and yet so 
firm! He was a surprize and a puzzle to 
him. A public school and Oxford — ter- 
rible Oxford! — had left him temperate and 
moral! He had gone to Epsom without 
stealing anybody’s money, or fighting the 
police! He was a wonder! 

Dr. Raynor was right when he said that 
Percy Tremayne did not owe his good for- 
tune to any love which Sir William bore 
him ; but in time something as nearly ap- 
proaching affection as could enter that 
cold, selfish heart, arose for him, and he 
deserved all, and more, than he got. I do 
not mean to say that the Oxford under- 
graduate developed at once into a Mechi 
or a Reid, but there was a good deal more 
content and visible prosperity upon the 
estate than heretofore. “ It is yours — do 
as you please, I am content,” became the 
baronet’s constant reply when consulted 
as to its management. 

Percy did well, and, to his credit be it 
recorded, put in many a good word for the 
absent. No power could deprive Stephen 
of the baronetcy, and although his father 
had sworn he should never set his foot in 
Wharnstead, with a vehemence which pre- 
vented any return to that subject, there 
were other lands with which he might 
support that dignity, and Wharnstead had 
not always been in the family. Sir Wil- 
liam made no direct replies to these hints, 
but did not taboo the subject. 

As for Stephen himself— with two hun- 
dred and fifty pounds a year to spend as 
he liked, and do as he liked — he was 
probably happier than ever he had been in 
his life. Shame did not touch him. He 
had done nothing to be ashamed of. The 
shame was with those who had condemned 
him unheard. The heir-apparentship of 
Wharnstead was not worth having, and as 
for the succession, he would see about that 
when the time came. In the pleasant 
French watering-place which he chose for 
his abode, he became quite a personage, 
studied the language, and learned to play 
ecarte. 

He would see about the succession when 
the time came. His idea was to contest 
an unfavorable will, on the ground of un- 


A FAMILY TREE. 


131 


due influence, and the testator’s dotage. 
For this purpose he took careful notes of 
all that had happened. Would a sane 
parent disinherit his only son because of 
a fuss at a card-table, and without en- 
quiring who was to blame? Would a 
sane person take a young gentleman from 
the University, who did not know the 
price of a sheep, and give him the sole 
management of a great estate? That 
would be for a jury to decide. When he 
heard that his father was dead, and had 
made no will, he thought of burning 
those notes, but, on second thought, kept 
them. 

What was to be done now? Prepare 
the ground, and sow seeds for future 
harvesting, no more for the present. Be 
very courteous to Percy; pretend that he 
preferred to live abroad ; throw out a few 
carefully worded suggestions that his poor 
dear father had repented of his uncon- 
sidered condemnation, and leave the rest 
to time. This Willford was no fool. The 
family did not produce fools, whatever else 
it bred. But, oh! sooner or later he 
would get even with Dennis — father and 
son. It was in this conviction that he 
visited the United States of America. 

Shortly after the funeral, Percy Tre- 
mayne saw Mr. Dennis, and the now 
three years old trouble was inevitably dis- 
cussed. 

“ Surely he can come back now, sir,” 
urged Percy. 

“ Not yet,” Dennis repjied, sternly. “As 
soon as it becomes known that he could 
not come back at his own pleasure, but 
had to wait for mine , why then perhaps he 
may. I sympathise with you , and admire 
your conduct, Mr. Tremayne, and trust 
that, being neighbors, we may become 
friends, now that it is possible for me to 
visit Wharnstead.” 

Jack (a captain now) wrote from Ireland, 
where he was quartered, to the same effect 
in his own free and easy way. 

“ Can’t that poor beggar come back now, 
dad ? All ours who were in the regiment 
at the time, know about it, and they’d as 
soon take me for a Fenian Head Centre as 
a card sharper.” 

But again “ Not yet! ” was the reply. 


This brings us down to the day when 
the letter written by Dr. Raynor’s advice 
was posted to Sir Stephen Willford at New 
York, and forwarded after him to New 
Orleaus. It ran as follows : 

“ Dear Sir Stephen, 

“ Your letter of the 14th inst. was 
no doubt intended to be kind, but is not 
satisfactory under the circumstances in 
which I am placed. The sum you men- 
tion in your postscript as spent upon im- 
provements, went, as I informed you at 
the time, to repair your house, and will 
not return a shilling unless you rent it. If 
you require more money than usual next 
year, you must raise it by sale or mort- 
gage. Your rents, &c., will yield you less 
than before, because you have to provide 
for an agent. Sign and return the en- 
closed agreement with me as such for five 
years certain, at a salary of one thousand 
a year, or find some one else this day three 
months. I do not apologise for stating 
the case thus dryly. A good agent has to 
be a man of business. 

“ Yours faithfully, 

“ Percy Tremayne.” 

“D — n his impudence!” growled Sir 
Stephen. “Dennis has put him up to 
this, I’ll swear. Five years certain ! Five 
thousand pounds! He fancies I’m in his 
power, and puts on the screw, does he ? 
I’ll very soon put him in his place — the 
beggar! No, that won’t do just now. I’ll 
make use of him; write from here as 
though I had not received his letter. That 
will gain time. He won’t throw up in 
three months, anyhow — he knows better.” 

Then the muser locked up his despatch 
box, and enquired what cars would take 
him to Goodchildren street, and being en- 
lightened, called at No. 195, and asked if 
Judge Alexander was at home. 

Once a judge, always a judge, in Ameri- 
ca. Mr. Alexander had occupied the 
bench for about two years when he was 
young, and filled a good many other posi- 
tions since. He had been a cotton broker, 
a tax collector, a lawyer again, a senator, 
a minister, and had all but obtained a 
nomination for President of the United 


132 


A FAMILY TREE. 


States. But his party “ dried up ” and 
left him stranded where the sweet waters 
of office never reached him again. lie 
had the reputation of being one of the 
most profound lawyers and best read men 
in the country; but that would not get 
him a clerkship in the humblest of its 
tribunals. Per contra, he was credited 
with the possession of a conscience which 
might be inflamed to use his intellectual 
weapons in ways that are dark, and this 
might easily have made him governor of 
his state in these latter days. But he 
became idle, cynical, soured, after his 
great disappointment. Having played for 
the biggest stake in the game, and lost, he 
threw up his cards in disgust, retired from 
the bar and from society, and lived, a 
lonely sybarite, upon what he had made. 
It was enough for his wants, and to buy a 
book or two when something worth his 
perusal, that he had not read, turned 
up. 

One of his specialties whilst at the bar 
was pedigree, particularly that of old Eng- 
lish families settled in America, when it 
was His Majesty’s plantations. He owed 
his fortune (such as it was) to the success- 
ful prosecution of a long dormant claim, 
on behalf of the heirs of a ne’er-do-'well, 
who ran away from home when good 
Queen Anne was yet alive. 

The civil war upset all his financial cal- 
culations. Hard times came for the 
owners of property; rents fell, taxes rose, 
values shrunk, and the wolf came un- 
pleasantly near the door of Ho. 195, Good- 
children street, at which we also left Sir 
Stephen Willford knocking. It was opened 
to him by a gaunt figure in its shirt 
sleeves, with no socks on its down-at-heel 
slippered feet, and two days rusty grey 
beard bristling its chin. A whiff of garlic 
and tobacco escaped into the outer air, as 
it asked, “ What do you want? ” in a tone 
which implied “ Confound you, for wanting 
anything!” 

“ I wish to see Judge Alexander. My 
name is Willford, and I have called by ap- 
pointment,” the visitor replied. 

“ So ! Come in ; I have been expecting 
you for a week,” said the figure. 


CHAPTER VII. 

FROM DIXIE’S LAND. 

Percy Tremayne spent Christmas 
with his mother, and told her all about 
Bessie, including the steps he had taken, 
by Dr. Raynor’s advice, for obtaining a 
pied a terre from which to woo her. 

The Malapropian rule that it is better to 
begin with a little aversion, seemed to strike 
Mrs. Tremayne as peculiarly applicable in 
this case, so far as she was concerned in it 
as a probable mother-in-law. Sir Stephen 
might not come to terms, or, if he did, 
Bessie might not. So she carefully wetted 
all the various descriptions of blankets 
which fond parents have used on these oc- 
casions, and applied them to her son for 
the double purpose of damping his present 
ardor and softening his future fall should 
Bessie prove unkind. He might hope for 
better things than land agencies; look 
higher than the daughter of a country 
doctor. 

“ I have heard of that aunt of hers — 
Mrs. Rose,” said the warning voice; “ and, 
unless she is much slandered, it would be 
a blessing for the girl if all went as you 
hope, and you married her next month.” 

You have not forgotten that Percy’s 
mother had been described to Miss Raynor 
as “ a countess who takes in sewing, some- 
where near Leicester square;” so that if 
Mrs. Rose were the informant, it is to be 
inferred that there was no love lost between 
the ladies. . 

There was a time when a pale young wid- 
ow struggled for bare existence for herself, 
and comfort for an old man and a child, 
within sight of the once dilapidated patch 
which Baron Albert Grant has made 
beautiful for ever. The old man is long 
since dead ; the child wants to marry Bessie 
Raynor; the pale widow has just spoken. 
Instead of wandering, wet and weary, 
dragging her pictures for sale to dealer 
after dealer, or sometimes even praying 
them for the love of God to lend her the 
price of a meal upon the work of a week, 
she takes her ease in her pretty river-side 
home, paints when she pleases, and there 
is a race and a scramble to bid for the 
result. She is surrounded by things of 


A FAMILY TREE. 


133 


beauty and of freshness. Her senses revel 
in light, and color, and space, in sweet per- 
fumes and soft raiment; for she knows what 
squalor means. She, who was reared in 
every luxury, has felt the crushing misery 
of poverty, with its foul sights, and smells, 
and sounds ; and now she has her revenge. 

Years have passed since Fame smiled 
upon her, and with touch of magic wand 
changed hard bargainers into eager buyers, 
want into plenty, and gave that quicken- 
ing vigor to her genius which made her 
deserve the success she gained. But even 
now she will run out bare-headed in the 
morning, take a great gulp of the fresh air, 
or bury her face in dewy roses, with un- 
uttered, though all-thrilled thankfulness, 
as though she had not even yet completely 
realized the change. She is grey and time- 
worn beyond her years ; but her southern 
blood warms her heart, and kindles her 
fancy even more now, in the Indian Sum- 
mer of her life, than when nourishing the 
early flowers of its spring. 

“ Mother dear,” said Percy, one night 
as they sat together over the fire, “I wish 
you would tell me something about our 
own affairs? 

“ I have been disgracefully idle. Mea 
culpa! Idle because I was thinking of 
my coming boy, and idle because he came,” 
she answered gaily, passing a still white 
and shapely hand through his hair. “ I’ll 
be good when you have gone.” 

“ I was not asking about painting ; I 
want to know more than I do about our- 
selves— our family.” 

“ To see if we are good enough to mate 
with a country doctor’s ” 

“ Don’t, mother, please. I know what 
we are.” 

“ An artist and a land agent. Will that 
not suffice?” 

“ If you wish it But it's rather awk- 
ward not to be able to answer observations 
upon such a subject.” 

“Who has been making observations? 
she asked, sharply. 

“Well, Doctor Raynor did for one. I 
turned it off as well as I could ; but I’ve 
been thinking of it since, and it worries 
me.” 


“ What did he say ? ” 

“ He had one of his snorts about our 
being proud on your side. He snorts at 
things he don’t like just as a horse does. 
It’s his way. He spoke of my grandfather 
having lost some property, or some inter- 
est, because he would not stoop to claim it. 

“ And this was whilst you were discuss- 
ing ways and means about his daughter?” 
“ Something about pride brought it up ? ” 
“ It was an impertinence,” said the lady, 
drawing herself up, and looking as haughty 
as her own picture of Lady Percy, “ which 
I hope you resented.” 

“ I did not, for he meant no harm. I 
turned it off with one of his own sayings, 
‘ It is no use crying over spilled milk,’ but, 
mother, it is surely no impertinence in me 
to ask what every man has — yes, I will put 
it plainly— a right to know.” 

She looked him in the face with moist- 
ening eyes, then threw her arms round his 
neck and kissed him. 

“How like your father! Oh, how like 
your father ! His voice, his very manner, 
his calm, kind sternness when he was in 
earnest, and yet you were a babe when he 
died. It seems as though he were speak- 
ing from your lips. Listen, and I will tell 
you all I know. We are of a noble Italian 
family, ancient, and once rich. We lived 
in Naples — governed, when I was a girl, 
by a creature nic-named Bomba , whose 
rule was based upon three instruments — 
the prison, the bribe, and the bayonet. 
Your grandfather lived before his time. 
He was a Rienzi, with no ambition but to 
do good — a Massaniello of the nobles. 
He had the winning force of a Garibaldi, 
and the wisdom of a Cavour; but the 
world was not ready for him. He lost all 
for his country, and when others had 
made it free, it forgot him. 

“ Your father, who commanded a small 
ship of war in the bay during some of our 
troubles, saved his life, and brought us to 
London. I know no more now than I 
knew then. We were ruined. He taught 
and translated his language while he could, 
and I painted pictures. It was the art of 
my country, and I loved it for that. I 
loved it more, as it gave me the means of 
earning a pittance for those I loved ; but, 


134 


A FAMILY TREE. 


oh! what a pittance it was. Percy, I 
bought in one of my early pictures last 
month at a sale at Christie’s — not even a 
fair specimen, by any means ; but I wanted 
it. It cost me two hundred guineas, and 
what do you think I had sold it for? Ten 
shillings ! And was glad.” 

“ Dear old famous mother! ” 

“Your father was dead then, and the 
doctors ordered generous wine and good 
diet for mine. Famous! He was famous, 
and he perished of want; not want of the 
mere necessities of life — these, thank God ! 
I could provide — but for want of the pure 
air, the brain work, the room to stretch his 
mind and act, without which mere cor- 
poral existence was nil. If he had rights 
in his country, he never spoke of them. 
He never made a show of himself, like 
some other refugees. Once a large, blue, 
official letter, with Palmerston written on 
the top corner, came, and I had to answer 
it at his dictation, for he was too feeble to 
write. I suppose it was some offer of 
assistance from the English government, 
for he replied, ‘Your lordship’s most kind 
and delicately proffered proposal is thank- 
fully declined.’ That was all. Perhaps it 
was to this that your friend, Dr. Raynor, 
alluded.” 

“No; I think he meant something pro- 
posed for him from abroad.” 

“ It matters not. Whatever he did was 
right, depend upon that. If it had been 
proper to go into particulars, he 'would 
have told your father, and he me. You 
have nothing but your brains and your 
mother’s savings, Percy.” 

“ Something more, mother. When you 
married an Englishman, you took his 
name, and I am proud of it; but that is 
no reason why I should not be equally 
proud of yours. What was it ? ” 

“ Cravalli.” 

“ I shall remember that. And now, 
mammie dear, we’ll drop the subject. I 
have a hero and a martyr for my grand- 
sire, a heroine for a mother, a gallant of- 
ficer for my father, and, if all go well, a 
thousand a year for my brains, so you may 
spend those savings on your precious self, 
and throw your sketches, paints, and 
brushes, into the Thames.” 


“My art belongs to my country; I will 
never give it up; it is the only heirloom 
I have — but one,” she added, with a light 
smile. 

“ And what is that one?” 

“Inquisitive! A toy— a curio, as you 
would say. You shall see it before you 
go. Now’, one word more and I have done. 
Have you built on this idea which Doctor 
Raynor put into your head? Are you 
disappointed? Tell me frankly. In the 
glamour of your Bessie’s eyes have you 
ever dreamed of being a bold baron, living 
in marble halls, with vassals and serfs by 
your side ? ” 

“ I have not seen Miss Raynor since the 
doctor mentioned the subject,” Percy re- 
plied, somewhat drily. 

“ How like your father! Well, Mr. Pre- 
cise, let that part of my question pass, and 
answer the other. Have you built on this, 
or are you disappointed?” 

“ Not a bit,” he laughed. He did not 
like to be teased about Bessie’s eyes w r hen 
his mother was in fun. Now that a tinge 
of anxiety softened her voice, it was quite 
a different thing. “How could I? Ami 
not a born Cockney? I suppose Bow 
Bells can be heard from Leicester Square, 
when the wind is favorable? One may 
like to know about one’s grandfather, with- 
out hankering after marble halls. Be- 
sides, I have learned the wisdom of the 
proverb, ‘ Blessed are they who expect 
nothing, for they shall not be disappoint- 
ed,’ he added, somewhat bitterly. 

“ Percy,” said his mother, taking his hand, 
“ you know my opinion about Wharn- 
stead, and so I will not repeat it. I believe 
in justice. If I did not, I should become 
a very wicked woman, suffering as I and 
mine have suffered. I am not thinking 
of the justice of courts of law, or of kings 
and governments, but a higher mode of 
righting wrongs. I believe that all we 
have lost w ill be restored to us some day 
— but this is no reason why we should uot 
work for ourselves whilst it is on the 
way.” 

“ ‘ Trust in Providence, my lads, but keep 
your powder dry,’ ” Percy quoted. 

“ Exactly.” 

“ If you were only the seventh daughter 


A FAMILY TREE. 


135 


of a seventh daughter!” he said, kissing 
the hand that held his own. “ Take up 
your parable, and prophesy that I shall be 
happy.” 

“ I will pray that you may be. Did I 
tell you,” she said, after some pause, and 
in a changed tone, “ that I expected visitors 
to-morrow ? ” 

“ No ; but that is not news — you have 
plenty of visitors.” 

“ These will stay here some days. To 
any one else I should say garder nous ! ” 

“ Oh, ladies!” 

“ A lady and her brother. You will like 
him, and she— if you were a free man, I 
should fear she might carry your heart, or 
you, back to America with her.” 

“ They are Americans, then ? ” said 
Percy, as a man would say, “ What bores 
they will be.” 

For un travelled Percy’s ideas of our fair 
cousins on the other side of the Atlantic 
were based upon types with which Mes- 
dames Florence and Barney Williams have 
enriched the drama. True, he did not ex- 
pect that a lady whom his mother would 
invite on a visit would slap him on the 
back with a “ Hell-lo , young feller ! ” or 
drum upon the table with the haft of her 
knife, and demand pumpkin pie. This his 
common sense held ever as a caricature, 
but he was not unprepared for one who 
would call him “ Sir,” would talk through 
her nose, and possibly misuse her knife at 
luncheon. When he saw a lady dressed 
with exquisite taste, and moving like a 
fawn, walking up to the door on the arm 
of a man who might have been a duke or 
a clerk in the Treasury, he thought it must 
be some one else, but it was not. Mr. and 
Miss D’Esmonde were introduced, and 
neither of them talked through the nose. 

They were taken over the grounds, 
shown the studies, and entertained at 
luncheon which they discussed with good 
appetite, and the utmost propriety. Sur- 
prise, disarmed, Percy’s next emotion was, 
to find that he — acting host as he was — 
was being put at his ease! Thpy came 
from a race, the most hospitable in the 
world, and took welcome as they were 
accustomed to give it — as a matter of 
course. No hesitation, no “ oh, pray don’t 


take the trouble,” and that sort of non- 
sense about them. The word “ trouble,” 
in relation to a guest, was never heard in 
their plantation home. The lady was, 
perhaps, too pale and fragile for our taste, 
and there was not one strictly beautiful 
feature in her face; but the faintest touch 
of interest or excitement lit it up with a 
smile which would have dowered a dozen 
plainer maidens with beauty. A smile 
which glorified it as the sun does the crest 
of a wave at sea. “ She is either the most 
arrant flirt that ever angled for the heart 
of man,” thought Percy, as she wished him 
“ good-night,” “ or else the most charm- 
ingly natural girl I ever saw.” Bessy 
Raynor, the good reader knows, was not 
quite natural, but he meant no treason to 
her. Girls can be charming without be- 
ing natural. 

Blessed be art for its own sake ; for its 
softening influences, for its inspiring 
action, for the slaps which it deals the 
almighty dollar in his vulgar gilded face. 
And especially let it be blessed for its 
loyalty to tobacco in the dark ages when 
Nicotina the queen; enemy of care, 
soother of pain, soft nurse of thought — 
was, by foolish men and women, banished. 
In the villa by the Thames, she had a 
worthy shrine — oak wainscotted, dim luxu- 
rious; with low divans, a yard wide, of 
Bismarck brown morocco, skirting the 
walls, save where hung heavy curtains, 
emerald green, and the winter fire blazed. 
Hither Percy and Mr. D’Esmonde ad- 
journed when the ladies said good-night, 
and here they became acquainted. Evoe! 
Nicotina! When your mutual friend says, 
“Mr. Brown, Mr. Smith; Mr. Smith, Mr. 
Brown ; ” you are introduced. When 
Nicotina in her crown of fire and cloudy 
robes of blue, graciously wills it so— you 
know one another. 

“ So you are a Southerner,” observed 
Percy, as the talk turned upon America, 
“ were you in the war ? ” 

“I was too young,” the other replied 
with a sigh. “ I lost my father and elder 
brother in it. He was only fifteen — poor 
Tom ! ” 

“ What ! did boys of that age go out ? ” 

“You couldn’t keep them in. We had 


136 


A FAMILY TREE. 


no bounty jumpers or substitutes in Dixie. 
We fought it out for ourselves, and by 
ourselves. Why if an able bodied man 
had shown himself idle in the streets of 
New Orleans, the very children would 
have hissed him! Up north they could 
buy brigades of Germans and Irish, and 
crushed us by sheer force of numbers.” 

“ And now that it is all over — candidly; 
do you think you were right?” 

“ We went with our State.” 

“ Aye, but was that justified ? ” 

“ Rather a large question, and one 
which has not yet been tried, except by 
fire and steel. They called us 4 rebels,’ the 
war a 4 rebellion.’ They imprisoned our 
President as a traitor; they deprived thou- 
san ds of their civil rights as traitors — but, 
please, mark this! they never even at- 
tempted to convict one man of treason.” 

44 It is well to build a golden bridge for a 
retiring foe,” said Percy, who was strong 
in proverbial philosophy. 

44 A golden bridge ! That of Al-Syrat was 
easy to travel in comparison with the one 
they made for us,” said the other bitterly. 

44 With no Mahommed to give you a lift 
over it ? Well, one great good came out 
of it. 

44 What is that? ” 

44 The extinction of slavery.” 

44 It substituted one race for another — 
that’s all! The white man is the slave 
now. His former servant is his master. 
He does not exactly put him to labor, but 
he picks his pocket of the value of his toil, 
loads his property with taxes amounting 
to confiscation ; and with corrupt judges 
and arbitrary governors, subjects him to 
a tyranny which you English have not 
known for centuries. And the negro is 
no better off than before, as a race. A few 
hundred possibly, good cooks and barbers, 
have become execrable officials, and the 
rest are starving.” 

44 Look here, Mr. D’Esmonde ! ” Percy 
asked, 44 which would you rather do — live 
free on a crust a day, or be a slave ? ” 

44 Put like an Englishman, but the argu- 
mentum ad hominum is not fair. The 
blood of I don’t know how many genera- 
tions of freemen runs in my veins. The 
men my father held as slaves before the 


war, and their great great grandfathers 
before them, never knew what freedom 
meant. They do not know what it means 
now. Ask me if they would rather live 
upon a crust free, or be as they were ; and 
I will answer without hesitation that six 
out of ten — if they dared to speak the 
truth — would tell you 4 no’ to-day, and 
eight out of ten the same five years hence.” 

44 Then they don’t deserve freedom?” 

44 How could they possibly deserve it? 
They did nothing. I for one would not 
have denied them freedom as the result of 
a scheme in which they should work it 
out gradually, and learn to make good use 
of it when got. To understand the south 
you must get rid of those 4 Uncle Tom’s 
Cabin ’ ideas, in which your Exeter Hall 
folks rejoice. Suppose I were to write a 
story of conjugal life in England based 
upon the 4 Police Reports.’ Let me tell 
you two stories, out of thousands that 
could be told, to illustrate the real con- 
dition, past and present, of the negro 
in the south. An old nigger once came 
to our house, in New Orleans, to ask 
for something to eat, and got it. Then 
he came twice a week, and at last 
every day for his meals, and got them. 
Next he asked leave to sleep in the tool 
house, and got it. Next for a bed 
and that was given. Dimes for tobacco, 
and car rides followed — then came the 
end. We left, and his parting words to 
my sister were 4 Aye! missie, me is an un- 
fortunate old nigger, t’ain’t like de old 
times. I done got nobody as belongs to 
me.’ Mark — not I don’t belong to any- 
body; but no one belongs to me. There 
were exceptions, of course; but that was 
the dominant feeling. The master, his 
children, his house, his wealth, belonged 
to his negroes. Amongst themselves they 
took their status from him. The free 
laborer they called ‘poor white trash.’ 
Now for my other parable. One day, just 
before the election of 1860, whilst in com- 
pany with an ex-governor of the State, I 
met a 4 colored gentleman ’ dressed all in 
black with a diamond pin and a gold- 
headed cane, whom I recognized as my 
father’s barber. He was charmed to meet 
us — quite affable, and asked my friend 


A FAMILY TREE. 


137 


how he was going to vote. He told him 
he had no vote, being one of the proscribed. 
* Well, what a pity — and I’m a senator!’ 
said the darkie. ‘ Look at dat ! Now I’ll 
tell you what you got to do Mas’r Herbert. 
You got to get a bill of ’demnity, like de 
rest ob em. You draw him up, and I’ll 
fix him froo the senate. Only don’t you 
write him too good, else dey nebber will 
tink I done him myself.’ These be our 
rulers now.” 

“ Oh, but that must surely be an ex- 
treme case ! ” expostulated Percy. 

“ I assure you that it is not. We have 
legislators in Louisiana who cannot read 
or write. We had a chairman of a finance 
committee who was obliged to engage a 
clerk to add up the figures presented to 
him, and was not ashamed to ask for a 
vote to pay his assistant for the service. 
As we were crushed by numbers in the 
war, we so are crushed by numbers at the 
polls; and when, by putting together all 
our force, we gain an election, we are 
swindled out of the fruits by some con- 
juring tricks with the ballot boxes. All 
republics degenerate sooner or later into 
despotisms, and ours is going that way 
fast. But you’ve led me on to say more 
than I intended. It is a foul bird that 
soils its own nest.” 

“But a clean bird who owns that his 
nest is foul, and tries to clean it.” 

“Well turned! Like most proverbs, 
that one suggests its own retort. Yes; 
one of the best signs in my country is the 
repeal of the Elija Pogram law — ‘ we must 
be cracked up ’—right or wrong. We are 
nearly a hundred years old now, and can 
afford to admit that we have outgrown 
some of our institutions, and that others 
are run by incompetent engineers. I love 
my America — great, free, wholesome, 
whole-hearted America of the people! — 
but the fraud-United, force-United, greed- 
United States of the politicians, I can only 
mourn over. There I go again ! Isn’t it 
getting late? ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A FAIR REBEL. 

So you and my brother were talking 


politics last night in the smoking-room,” 
said Fanny D’Esmonde, on her way down 
to breakfast. “I hope he has made a 
good Southerner of you ? ” 

“Would you have me a traitor?” he 
said. 

“ There is no room for treachery be- 
tween a good Englishman and a good 
Southerner, Mr. Tremayne.” 

She was standing four steps up the 
staircase, and he leaning over the broad 
oaken balustrade. Their heads were not 
far apart, and he fairly winced under the 
flash which lit the small pale face as she 
spoke. 

“ I wish you could have known us be- 
fore the war, and seen how thoroughly 
English we were,” she added. 

“ What war?” he asked, with a twinkle 
of mischief in his eyes. 

“ I understand what you mean, and will 
follow you even so far back as that. Read 
our history — putting yourself in our place, 
and marking the provocation we had — re- 
member how patient we were, how we 
strove for peace; and then judge what a 
wrench it must have been that tore us 
apart. And bear in mind that when war 
was forced upon us, the right hand, and 
all the brain that waged it, came from the 
dear old South.” 

“ Well, it was some comfort to be beaten 
by a Washington,” he said. 

“We think alike so far; but when the 
separation came, it was with your king 
and his government, not with you . We 
loved England — its ways, its thoughts — 
still. Do you know that there were old 
folks in Virginia and the Carolinas who 
chartered ships, and brought out English 
bricks, for the pleasure of saying that they 
lived in English homes ? ” 

“I did not indeed,” he replied. “On 
the contrary, I thought you were especially 
hostile to us because— — ” 

“ Well, because ? ” 

“ Please let me off ! I was sliding into a 
subject which I should hate to discuss 
with you.” 

“ I understand. You mean slavery. It 
is no use discussing that. I smile upon it 
through rose-colored glasses from one side, 
and you dip your spectacles in lamp-black 


138 


A FAMILY TREE 


and glare upon the other. No ; let us go 
on about our English proclivities.” 

“I thought you were of French extrac- 
tion; your name sounds French.” 

“‘Sound and fury signifying — noth- 
ing !’” she replied. “We are American 
au fonde — that is, down to 1776. We 
were British for years and years before 
then. Oh ! you’ve no reason to be ashamed 
of us. We are of no degenerate or mongrel 
race. We fought you well, and we beat 
you well, and we loved you well for all 
that.” 

She is leaning over the balustrade now, 
and Percy finds it pleasant to look at her 
and hear her voice, instead of leading the 
way to the breakfast- room, as he ought to 
do. She is pleasant to see; her lithe, 
plump little figure, draped in purple cloth, 
glorified with violet plush, a quaint stand- 
up lace collar crisping round her neck, and 
twin sisters of it on guard at her wrists. 
An elbow is on the balustrade, and her 
face is half hidden by the hand which 
supports it. Her voice is soft and low, 
with a contralto touch in it, which vi- 
brates and seems to say “ hush! ” to every 
other sound. It is alive , this voice, and 
her bright face softens, and flashes up, 
and smiles in accompaniment. She is not 
ashamed of being in earnest. Her “ we 
fought you well, we beat you well, and we 
loved you well,” are all spoken with emo- 
tion. 

“ This is acting,” Percy says to himself, 
with what he would like to make a sneer — 
but it won’t come. 

He cannot keep his eyes off hers, and 
they meet him without a flinch of con- 
sciousness. When he speaks he finds that 
his own voice has softened. 

“ I am sorry to hear you speak in the 
past tense,” he said. “ Don’t you love us 
now ? ” 

“We think you might have helped us — 
that you ought to have helped us — in our 
struggle with the Yankees; and so we are 
sore — we are.” 

Down went her chin, sideways. 

“ Why, you were a child when the war 
was over ? ” 

“ And there are children in the South 
to-day, Mr. Tremayne, who think as I do.” 


“ Does it not strike you as being rather 
the reverse of wise to ” (“ cry over spilt 
milk ” was on the tip of his tongue, but he 
checked the familiar aphorism, and sub- 
stituted) — “ to perpetuate hatred.” 

“ It is not only unwise, but wicked. We 
are not to blame. Our enemy chooses to 
be ungenerous and brutal, and has to take 
the consequences.” 

“Come, come! You always hated the 
Yankees.” 

“We always hated Yankee ways — so 
much the better for us. Do you love Mr. 
Odger and Dr. Kenealy? Do the Irish 
love you ? We are the Ireland of America. 
Generations of kind and honest rule would 
not quench our hate, and the first con- 
ciliatory touch has yet to be given.” 

“ It is a bad sign for a nation when fair 
young lips can speak so bitterly,” thought 
Percy. “ Make the women thus, and what 
will the men be? ” 

“ So,” she added, more gaily, “ own that 
you were selfish and wrong, and go into 
the corner.” 

“ There’s an excellent comer in the 
library, with a fire in it,” replied Percy ; 
“ will you come ? ” 

“ Oh, I have not been naughty ! ” 

“ Then I plead not guilty. I will not be 
punished alone.” 

“ Oh ! a tete-a-tete with me would be 
punishment ! Thank you, Mr. Tremayne,” 
with a low courtesy. 

“ I should have said that going into the 
corner in such company would be no ex- 
piation of my fault; but unfortunately I 
didn’t. When people fence with words, I 
think they should do as well-bred fencers 
with foils — acknowledge the thrust they 
have not parried. So, mademoiselle, 
touch€,” with a low bow. 

“ Are you two practising for a minuet ? ” 
asked Mrs. Tremayne, as she joined them. 

“ No,” said Fanny. “We were not part- 
ners, but opponents. I smote your son 
with a curtsey, and he crushed me with a 
bow.” 

“ Oh, if people will pelt pearls and dia- 
monds, I, for one, must retire in disorder. 
I have no such ammunition,” said he. 

We must really get up a convention a 
la Basse to settle what weapons may be 


A FAMILY TREE. 


139 


used in these conflicts,” observed Mrs. 
Tremayne. “ As it is, young men and 
old women have no chance, and in the 
meantime suppose we go and breakfast.’* 

It soon became abundantly clear that 
Fanny D’Esmonde was a spoiled child, and 
that it was capital fun to spoil her. She 
was a novelty, and a charming one. She 
never “ gushed,” and nothing bored her. 
She was as bright as a bee, and of a lazi- 
ness which was as graceful as it was pro- 
found. When callers were introduced, 
Percy remarked the same cordial lighting 
up of her face, the same inviting openness 
which he had been conceited enough to 
think was all for him, when they first met. 

“She has the dearest little ways,” his 
mother remarked to him, as she ran up to 
dress for a drive, “and I never saw any 
one so quick at thawing people. Lady 
Hucklebury even was civil to her, and 
made me promise to take her over to 
Kingston on Friday.” 

“ She is quite nice,” Percy says as from 
the blush. 

As a man in love, and half engaged to 
be married (he has his own consent, you 
know) he may play Sir Oracle on such a 
point. He likes to “ draw ” Fanny, and 
hear her talk treason. He gets some new 
ideas from her, and gathers her history, 
piecemeal, as follows : 

She came of a race whose position is not 
easy to realize by the light of our own 
social history; from a race of men who 
grew cotton and made sugar and were 
traders, but who ruled the vast estates 
which produced their riches as never did 
titled earl in our most despotic times; and 
they brought into their homes all that was 
most refining in modern civilization. They 
ruled their lands not by the brute force 
of men at arms, but the influence which 
makes a happy household think that what- 
ever its head may do is right, simply be- 
oause he does it. There was no higher 
rank into which they might struggle, 
therefore they were at their ease with all 
men. There was no lower orders seeking 
to invade them, therefore they were court- 
eous and open to all. They had all the 
comfort, the calmness, and the grace of an 
assured past, present, and— as they sup- 


posed — future. Their Republicanism sat 
lightly upon them. In their hearts they 
were Monarchists to a man, as they saw 
Royalty — English-speaking and English- 
meaning Royalty — become year by year 
more pure, and their own institutions be- 
coming year by year more corrupt. They 
were no worse Americans for that. Their 
sons and daughters married for love when 
they loved. There was room enough and 
to spare in their great houses for a troop 
of grandchildren, and there was a warm 
place in the old folks’ hearts for the new 
son or daughter. The traditional mother- 
in-law was not known in Dixie, and there 
were children — not ^oung gentlemen who 
“ didn’t care ” at thirteen, or young ladies 
who tossed their willful heads at twelve, 
but free, happy children, who knew not a 
nursery gate, picked up the manners of 
the drawing-room, and were at their ease 
with all comers, at an age when our pro- 
geny are male and female cubs. There 
was not any danger for them, so they knew 
no fear. A maiden, however pretty, be 
her raiment ever so poor or so costly, 
might walk the streets of New Orleans — 
did she so desire — from .dewy mom till 
eve, and not an offensive word or look 
would molest her. A short parley and a 
quick shot would have followed such an 
offence. Gay Lotharios carried their lives 
in their hands. When men quarrelled, 
there was mischief. No firing in the air; 
no scratch upon a sword arm, and then 
breakfast for four, amidst effusions of 
mutual glorification. Pistols at ten paces; 
shot guns, loaded with ounce ball, at forty 
yards ; small swords, to be used as long as 
they could be grasped, was the order of 
the day when a real injury was done. 
Barbarous ! Oh, of course, dreadfully bar- 
barous! We know better. A state of so- 
ciety in which a gentleman may give an- 
other the lie in a club smoking-room, or 
(being six feet high, and an athlete) may 
tell stories of his sister, or run away with 
his wife, and make fun of him (by counsel) 
in the Divorce Court afterwards, is so very 
pure, and barbarous cannot, in the oldest 
sense of the word, be applied to it. But it 
kept the crescent city peaceful and virtu- 
ous — as the cities of men may be — not 


140 


A FAMILY TREE. 


because its citizens feared shot and steel, 
but for hatred of the cowardice and the 
cruelty for which shot and steel were pre- 
scribed. 

In such a state of society was Fanny 
D’Esmonde “raised.” In her plantation 
home she was a princess sole — in the 
neighboring city a princess amongst prin- 
cesses. Not a whim unsatisfied; not a 
pleasure that her innocent young heart 
could imagine, denied. Spoiled ! Oh, yes, 
all that, from her slipper tips to the top- 
most curl of her chignon ; but, taking it as 
a right, and giving back love and freshness 
and practical gratitude five hundred per 
cent. 

Then came the war. New Orleans was 
taken. Her mother — who had sent a 
packet of quinine and some simple com- 
forts to a sick son in the Confederacy — 
was imprisoned during the stifling heat of 
the summer, in one room, with one win- 
dow high up, and when she begged for 
this to be opened, the renegade German 
brute who w’as her jailor, had it boarded 
over! Husband and son were away — as 
all men were — fighting. Fanny — a child 
then — was left with her child brother alone 
in their house. At noon one day an order 
came from the general commanding that 
he wanted that house at four o’clock. He 
found it a palace, he left it a pig-stye ! He 
stole — there is no other word for it — he 
stole every ounce of plate they possessed, 
from a salt-spoon to a punch-bowl. He 
cut the paintings which hung on the walls 
from their frames, rolled up the “ canvas,” 
and packed them up in his trunks. What 
he did not filch, he broke or soiled. He 
left nothing behind but some grocers’ bills 
— unpaid. What else he did in that city 
need not be recorded here. He had the 
cunning of a low Old Bailey attorney, the 
military capacity of a drummer boy, the 
coarseness of a butcher, and the heart of a 
mouse. In less than eight months he 
earned an amount of contempt for him- 
self, and laid up a score of hatred against 
his party, which the honor of a Sidney, 
the prescience of a Cavour, and the tact of 
a Palmerston could not wipe out in a life- 
time. He took himself, his spoons, and 
his pre-nomen, “ The Beast,” back to the 


place whence he came, and is now a shin- 
ing light amongst those who turn up the 
whites of their eyes, and sigh over the 
wicked South, and especially over wicked, 
vindictive, and turbulent (though spoon- 
less) Louisiana. 

Mrs. D’Esmonde never recovered the 
effects of her imprisonment. The colonel, 
her husband, was killed in action. Her 
eldest boy died of his wounds. George 
and Fanny were left orphans, the one at 
twelve, the other at eight years of age, 
when peace, reconstruction, and ruin came 
upon the land. The ruin was not so com- 
plete for them as for many others, so far 
as the loss of worldly possessions went. 
They have houses and lands left which 
bring in a comfortable income, and they 
are now on their travels seeing the world. 

Thus Fanny D’Esmonde— historian and 
sage, compiled from various fragments by 
Percy Tremayne and un revised by this 
present writer, who admits that there is 
room for revision. The picture she pre- 
sents accounts for her and her brother, 
and for some thousands of other men and 
women, who suffered as they did, and who 
are brought into immediate contact with 
the refinement they represent and repro- 
duce ; but it leaves a great deal out which 
may be added hereafter by another hand. 
A historian in seal skins with a bright 
little face flushed by the keen winter 
breeze, and which w’ants constantly to be 
cleared of rebellious gold brown hair, as 
you drive her along over the snow — is a 
dangerous sort of guide. A sage who 
moralizes in the twilight with a lace hand- 
kerchief at her eyes is apt to find dis- 
ciples. 

Not one thought disloyal to Bessie 
entered Percy’s mind. Fanny was “ quite 
nice,” that was all, and Fanny’s brother a 
capital companion. It was arranged that 
he should visit Percy at Wharnstead, when 
the latter’s holiday was over, and see the 
last of the pheasants ; and then the project 
grew. 

“ If you would come, mother, we might 
all go,” — this with the slightest possible 
glance in the direction of Miss D’Esmonde. 
But Mrs. Tremayne absolutely refused. 
She would never enter that house unless 


A FAMILY TREE. 


141 


he were master there. No, they might go, 
and Fanny should stay with her till her 
brother came back. 

“ How very odd ! ” George D’Esmonde 
had exclaimed when King’s Morton was 
mentioned. “ I have a letter of introduc- 
tion to a man who lives near there, but 
which I never expected to present. We 
met his married daughter and her hus- 
band, at home, and they made us promise 
to call, if we ever went to that part of the 
country— name of Dennis, do you know 
him ? ” 

“ Yes. I— know him,” said Percy, “ but 
between ourselves there are reasons which 
prevent us from becoming neighborly, as I 
should like to be. Still, you can call.” 

“ Oh, I’m not impatient about it.” 

“ You should call, really,” Percy insisted. 
“The Grange is a curious old place; the 
sort of representative old place which Am- 
ericans of your stamp delight in.” 

“ And I’m not to go, broke in Fanny, in 
mock despair. “ Cruel fate ! There will 
be sliding doors, and secret places, and 
armor, and old banners, and — but, oh, 
that would be too good — I might be able 
to give up the rest, but that, oh! — now 
Mr. Tremayne, the solemn truth” (small 
forefinger in the air), “ is there a ghost? ” 

“ Not that I know of.” 

“ Then I am resigned. There being no 
ghost at Mr. Dennis’ Grange, you can go 
there alone, George. Had there been, wild 
horses could not have torn me from your 
side. It is the ambition of every good 
American to see a real old British ghost. 
We have nothing but spirit-rapping things 
—inferior and spurious articles, with none 
of the proper surroundings.” 

“We must certainly find you a fine, 
high-dressed specimen,” laughed Percy, 

“ and serve him up with clanking chains; 
and a story, more majorum . When I was 
at Oxford I used to visit a house that was 
haunted by a previous Chatelaine, who 
very injudiciously murdered the butler. 
Oh, she did. There is no doubt about 
that part of the story — she beat his brains 
out in the cellar, and stained her hands, 
like Lady Macbeth, in the operation. She 
was very proud of her pretty hands, and 
indignant with the butler for spoiling 


them with his plebeian blood. My dear 
mother! I’ve seen her picture, so it must 
be true. She stands, life size, over the 
mantlepiece in the great dining-room, 
dressed as a shepherdess, with her beauti- 
ful hand in the air, so! — sniggering at it.” 

“ Sniggering,” observed Mrs. Tremayne, 
“ is vile slang, but I must confess that it 
is good enough to describe the usual ex- 
pression on family portraits of the past cen- 
tury. Proceed with your ghost, Percy.” 

My ghost proceeds by herself every 
night — out of her own room, along the 
picture-gallery, down the servants stair- 
case to the cellar; where she murders the 
butler over again, and comes back snig- 
gering.” 

“Have you ever seen her?” asked 
Fanny, fun and wonder struggling for 
mastery in her pretty eyes. 

“Well, I can’t say that I ever did, my- 
self ; but I once sat up all night watching 
for her.” 

“And she couldn’t come out! I know, 
just like them. Ghosts are so tiresome.” 

“ As bad as children and pet dogs,” 
gravely suggested Mrs. Tremayne; “never 
will show off when you want them.” 

“ Still,” said Fanny, “ you have plenty 
of old castles and places in England with 
ghost stories, and I’m not sure whether 
the story told on the spot with a circum- 
stance — like that picture or some real 
sword that has killed some one— to help 
you to realize it; is not better, on the 
whole, than sitting up for the ghost in the 
dark, and finding it is not his night after 
all. Have you a ghost story in your 
family ? ” 

“ I am afraid not.” 

“ Or even a mystery ? ” 

“ Mother dear, can we oblige Miss 
D’Esmonde with a mystery?” Percy asked. 

“ Nothing more profound than that of a 
grown man who talks nonsense,” his 
parent replied. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Tremayne !” Fanny expostu- 
lated, “don’t you think it does grown 
people good to talk nonsense sometimes ? 
Please say it does, for there’s George 
frowning at me.” 

“No one is allowed to frown here,” 
smiled the hostess. 


142 


A FAMILY TREE, 


“ I beg pardon, and won’t offend again,” 
George pleaded. “ Now suppose we change 
the subject.” 

“ Why so ? ” Percy asked. 

“ Because ” 

“I know,” whispered his sister. “We 
have what he thinks is a mystery in our 
family.” 

“ A spirit-rapping thing?” Percy asked 
with malice. 

“No sir. How dare you! It belongs 
to the time before that other war, when 
we were English, and is highly respect- 
able.” 

“Stop a moment!” Percy exclaimed, 
jumping up. “ Let me shut the shutters. 
It isn’t quite orthodox to talk mysteries 
before dinner, but artificial gloom may be 
provided. Is there a picture or a real 
sword ? ” 

“No, but something nearly as good. 
George, dear, have you got it?” 

“ Of course I have,” he replied, breaking 
his promise, and frowning again; “but 
surely, Fanny, you ” 

“ Oh yes she is,” cried Percy from the 
window. It was almost dark, though 
barely five o’clock. “ She’s going to tell 
us all about it.” 

“ I— I think I’d better not,” pleaded 
Fanny, whose gaiety had fallen consider- 
ably since her brother spoke. “ It wouldn’t 
interest you.” 

“Let us judge of that, dear,” said her 
hostess. 

“ And after all, it was a dream, or — or — 
something; not a ghost.” 

“ It was a ghost,” Percy asseverated, “ it 
was a real li — well it was a real dead 
man’s — was it a man’s? — ghost; and we 
will not be done out of him on false pre- 
tences.” 

“ Please don’t,” she cried, as though he 
had struck her. “ It was so foolish of me 
to mention it when we were joking, for 
we,” she said seriously and taking her 
brother’s hand, “ have been taught to be- 
lieve there is something that we cannot 
comprehend, but must not jest about it.” 

“ If you like .to tell us, dear,” said Mrs. 
Tremayne, who, for the first time, began 
to show interest in the conversation, “we 
will listen to you with the utmost respect, 


but if it be painful, pray don’t mind Percy ; 
we will turn him out of the room, and 
have our tea.” 

“ The whole thing is not worth making 
a fuss about,” George D’Esmonde inter- 
posed. “ It comes to this. A remote 
ancestor of ours had a dream, or vision, or 
visitation — what you please. A beautiful 
woman appeared to him three times, and 
on the last occasion bade him follow her, 
which he did ; till he came to a hut where 
a man lay dying. He had just strength 
enough to gasp, ‘my son — at last!’ and to 
press into his hand this curious old key.” 

So saying, George D’Esmonde drew 
forth his watch chain — a double one — to 
one end of which hung a silver key, the 
haft shaped like a cross entwined with 
ivy. 

“We have worn it, from father to son, 
ever since,” he added in conclusion, “ and 
it is supposed to bring us luck.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ BEWARE THE HAND THAT HOLDS THE 
IRON KEY.” 

If a mad bull were introduced into a 
second-hand book-store, and allowed to 
disport himself therein, fancy free, for 
(say) three quarters of an hour, he might 
— should his dementia take a violent form 
— produce about as much confusion as Sir 
Stephen found when Judge Alexander 
bade him “ come in.” And if you wanted 
the portrait of a man capable of taking 
that bull by the horns and turning him 
out, the present occupier might serve the 
artist v as a model. 

Tall, bony, ragged-faced, with the eye 
of an ape, and the jaw of a mastiff, he pre- 
sented a combination of force, fraud, and 
mockery which might have puzzled a 
Lavater to make a character out of. His 
visitor was no Lavater; standing there, in 
his lavender gloves, and a bunch of violets 
in his button-hole, he saw only a shabby 
old man, surrounded by evidences of learn- 
ing which inspired no respect. 

The judge swept a pile of books off a 
broken chair, and bade him “ sit down 
there.” Then he filled a huge briar-root 


A FAMILY TREE. 


148 


pipe with the strongest perique tobacco, 
and fired it with a match, which he lit on 
the flank of his rusty black trousers, sat 
himself in his own seat by his own untidy 
table, and took stock of his visitor out of 
the corners of his furtive eyes. 

His visitor, after a “ hen* ! ” or two, began 
pompously — 

“ I have called upon you, sir ” 

“Granted ; go on.” 

“ In my letter of the eighteenth, I took 
the liberty of stating that ” 

“ I have your letter; it speaks for itself. 
You’ve come to suck my brains — suck 
away, young man ! ” 

This disconcerted Sir Stephen. How 
dared this disreputable old man to snap 
him— Sir Stephen Willford, baronet — up 
like that? He would have resented the 
affront, but for something between a 
frown and a gibe on the disreputable per- 
son’s face, which cowed him. 

“ Well, let me help you to put up the 
pump,” said the other. “ You are a Will- 
ford, and the head of the family. I’m a 
Willford, too — did you know that? — and 
I’m not proud of it.” 

“ That is a matter of taste,” replied the 
baronet, with his best sneer. “ We are a 
good old family.” 

“ Old, if you like.” 

“ Many peers cannot show a pedigree so 
good and old as ours.” 

“So old; leave good out. You claim 
from a name-sake of yours, who lived in 
the days of James the First of England. 
Do you know what he was? ” 

“ I do. I happen to have studied the 
subject, Judge Alexander. Our ancestor, 
Stephen Willford, was a man of note.” 

“He was a witch-finder!” snarled the 
judge. 

“ I beg your pardon ! ” the other re- 
torted, hotly. “ You know nothing about 
it. He was a trusted officer of the Bishop 
of Chester, and afterwards of the king 
himself.” 

“He was a witch-finder!” roared Alex- 
ander, and a rogue at that! He scared 
peoplp out of the country by accusations 
of witchcraft, and then stole their lands. 
Every one, by God ! which your good old 
family have held, is stolen ! ” 


“We have deeds of grant to show for it, 
anyhow,” Sir Stephen muttered, much 
subdued by the late outburst. 

“ Deeds of grant be d d! You stole 

them, gave up half to some rogue at court, 
and got a deed of grant for the rest. A 
pickpocket who rubs out the number of a 
stolen watch, and has a fine presentation 
forged in the case, has as clear a title as 
old Stephen Willford had. Mind that, and 
don’t talk to me about your good family. 
I know you. You’re all alike. You’ve 
come here now to see if I’ll help you to 
rob a better man than you are.” 

“ You really put things in a most insult- 
ing manner, sir,” said the baronet, warmly 
— “a manner to which I am not accus- 
tomed ; ” and he rose. 

“Oh! you’ll get accustomed to me in 
time — you’ve got to. It’s my way. I 
don’t mean any harm. Sit down, and 
we’ll go on with the pump, and leave the 
family alone, now that you see I’m, not 
frightened at your title and your pedigree. 
Now then. Your father found a deed of 
grant by King James to Stephen Willford 
of some property now held by a Mr. 
Denys.” 

“ Dennis is his name.” 

“ A corruption. It was spelt with one 
“ n ” and a “y” when old Stephen died. 
Don’t you interrupt me, young man, till 
the pump is up. Dennis, as you call him, 
would show no title when your father 
sued him, but relied upon squatter's right , 
which could only be upset by proving 
fraud in the original occupation, or some 
acknowledgment, by payment of rent or 
otherwise, of a superior landlord. Dennis’s 
lawyers knocked yours into a cocked hat; 
but the old man didn’t give in. He 
set to work to find that fraud or ac- 
knowledgment. He hated Dennis pretty 
badly it seems, and weighed him in his 
own scales. So the whole history of your 
good old family was raked up and turned 
over. He discovered that Stephen Will- 
ford’s son came over to this country, and 
died here; and next he discovered me.” 

“ It was arranged at one time that I 
should come out and confer with you on 
the subject,” said Sir Stephen, taking ad- 
vantage of the pause. 


144 


A FAMILY TREE 


“ Mighty lot of good you'd have done!” 
Alexander snarled. 

“My father’s letters remained unan- 
swered. We did not know that they had 
reached you.” 

“ They reached all right; but look here, 
young man,” said Alexander, shading his 
shaggy brows with a grimy hand, and 
looking his visitor for the first time straight 
in the face, “there was no business in 
them. They were full of poppy-cock. Do 
you know what poppy-cock is? It’s fixed 
up of twaddle and beating about the bush, 
and ‘ if,’ and ‘ perhaps so ’ — that’s poppy- 
cock! There’s pious poppy-cock, and 
that’s meaner still. Old Sir William used 
a lot of that too. He wanted to suck my 
brains through the mail, and he never 
once wrote how much. That’s why I 
didn’t answer his prosy old letters. I was 
waiting for business. Now he’s dead, and 
you are Sir Stephen. You know as much 
as he did, and more, now that you’ve got 
the history of your name-sake. The rest 
is here,” striking his forehead almost 
fiercely. “ The pump is up, Sir Stephen 
Willford. The handle is yours. Go on.” 

“ I will begin where my father left off,” 
said the baronet, in a husky voice. “ How 
much f ” 

“ You’re smarter than I took you for, by 
God ! ” shouted the judge, starting from 
his seat. “ That’s business. Half.” 

“ Half what?” 

“ Half all I get you.” 

“You know, then — you — you have 

some clue — you can ” stammered Sir 

Stephen. 

“Poppy-cock! poppy-cock!” Alexander 
cried, waving his long arms about his 
head, as though driving away some swarm 
of things that stung him. “ I know what 
I know; I have what I have; I can do 
what I can do — and the half of all is yours 
if you have the sense to come to business, 
and drop your d d chattering.” 

“ Excuse me, I do not associate business 
with vulgarity and abuse. You said not 
long ago that I wanted to rob Mr. Dennis.” 

“ Pshaw ! Don’t let us quarrel about a 
word. Let it pass.” 

The speaker had thrown away his pipe, 
and was pacing up and down the room, 


kicking books, papers, and litter out of his 
way, till he had made himself a path. 

“I have no desire,” Sir Stephen con- 
tinued, “ to deprive Mr. Dennis of any- 
thing that is properly his, and it appears 
to me rather exorbitant to be charged fifty 
per cent, for the restitution of what is my 
own.” 

“You fool! Is not fifty per cent, fifty 
times better than nothing ? Do you sup- 
pose that 1 would puddle and potter for a 
six and eightpence here, and a five guineas 
there, like the dolts who fooled your 
father into court before he had a leg to 
stand on ? If I said ‘ Give me ten thou- 
sand pounds down, and take your chance 
of what I may get,’ would you trust me?” 

Now the legal gladiators who fought for 
Sir William in “the Rolls” were men of 
distinction in their profession, and abso- 
lutely refulgent with respectability as to 
their private lives. Mr. Lachrimer, the 
attorney, conducted a business which was 
over a century old, and had frequently 
been taken for a bishop. Dumbledor, 
Q.C., was a gentleman and a scholar. 
His junior, Mr. Burner, could do anything 
but take a joke, and was a rising man. 
Stephen remembered them all, remember- 
ed how they smiled upon him (all but 
Burner), and crushed him with their 
benevolence and wisdom. And now, here 
was a half naked semi-savage raving up 
and down his dirty room, and not only 
treating him as the dirt under his feet, but 
forcing upon his hearer the conviction — if 
it were only momentary — that he was 
their superior! Excitement made him 
hideous, but irresistible. He looked like 
a wolf that was changing into a man, or a 
man who was subsiding into a wolf, as he 
raved on. 

“No, you would not trust me,” he re- 
plied to his own question. “ You’re a 
Willford! Do you think you’re to wake 
up the fighting devil who has slept here 
(again striking his forehead a blow which 
would have staggered most men) for 
twenty years, and get off with a lawyer’s 
bill of costs? No, sir! Exorbitant! Fifty 
per cent, exorbitant, when your high and 
mighty English lawyers have failed ? By 
God ! if your father had come to terms, I’d 


A FAMILY TREE. 


145 


have made him pay two-thirds for wiping 
out the old grudge. It’s dead now, and 
I’m more moderate with you.” 

Dead ? The old grudge dead ? Not so. 
The error rather weakened the fascination 
which this strange being had begun to 
exercise over his hearer; but it touched a 
spring which raised the curtain from 
before a picture pleasant for Sir Stephen 
to imagine — John Dennis, who had expa- 
triated him, turned out of his own home! 

— Haughty Captain Jack, with his “d d 

supercilious ways,” driven to get his own 
living as a billiard-marker. There was 
revenge and more — rehabilitation in the 
thought. His persecutor, as Mr. Dennis 
of the Grange, was a power in the country 
— as a ruined man, who would mind him ? 
Half of what might be won from Dennis 
was no loss to Willford, and there was a 
grudge to settle. It pleased Sir Stephen’s 
small mind that in the matter of that 
grudge he was going to get the better of 
the man whose influence was overwhelm- 
ing him. 

“ I certainly think that payment of your 
services by a per-centage would be the 
most satisfactory plan,” he said, “and I 
shall riot grudge it, however easily it may 
be gained. I am a man of the world, my 
dear judge, though you, in your peculiar 
way, appear to doubt it. Everything is 
worth what it will fetch, and you have a 
right to sell your wares at your own price.” 

“ Bah ! I’ve nothing to sell. Do you 
think we are acting a play, and I’m going 
to open some box, and take out somebody’s 
will, or a rusty dagger, or some such trash, 
and so give the rightful heir his own ? 
Nonsense! I’ve nothing to sell, only to 
lend. Take the use of my brains for half 
what they may earn us, or let us have an 
end of this for ever.” 

“ I accept,” said the baronet, holding 
out his hand. “ Half-and-half— share and 
share alike, and I will sign any paper you 
like to draw up.” 

“Hum! You were educated for the 
Bar?” 

“ I was.” 

“ Did you learn anything? ” 

“ Well, I flatter myself I did.” 

“ Did you learn that such a compact as 

10 


we are making is illegal, and any instru- 
ment containing it mere waste paper?” 
the judge demanded, with lowering brows. 

“ What I meant was a memorandum for 
use between ourselves.” 

“ Which neither could enforce?” 

“ Which neither could enforce, but it 
would be binding in honor.” 

“ I intend to be stronger than that. I’m 
going to do my best for you, because I’m 
also working for myself. I won’t sell you. 
If you try to sell me, I’ll kill you ! Oh, 
I’d kill you as I would a wasp, so take 
notice.” 

No noise, no passion now, only a sub- 
dued hyena laugh running under the 
words. 

The egotism, self-conceit, and self-confi- 
dence of this strangely constituted man, 
had their effect upon Sir Stephen, because 
(paradoxical as it may appear) there w r as 
nothing to support them. Sir Stephen 
was one of those shallow people who seek, 
and often gain, the reputation of being 
“ very superior men,” by sneering at men 
and things upon which society has set her 
hall mark. He would sneer at the theology 
of a bishop, the statesmanship of a prime 
minister, or the art of a Royal Academi- 
cian, because he had discovered that one 
who goes into the world’s temples, and 
abuses its idols, is much better thought of 
than he who stays to worship them. And 
it is so easy to sneer. Had this professor 
found Judge Alexander a snug, well-con- 
ditioned person in a white tie, and gold- 
rimmed spectacles, occupying a well- 
furnished “ office,” with a bust of George 
Washington over the book-case, and had 
heard from such a guide, philosopher, and 
friend, one-tw T entieth part of the preten- 
sions put forward by this disreputable, 
unclean bully, he would have laughed 
them to scorn. Had such pretensions 
been less arrogant, he would not have ad- 
mitted them. There was no middle course 
to take. It was a case of everything or 
nothing. The man was either mad or a 
genius. If mad, there was nothing to 
lose; if a genius, everything to gain. 
When released from the pressure of the 
influence which had subdued him, the 
master of Wharnstead could not explain 


146 


A FAMILY TREE. 


to himself why he had been subdued. He 
only felt that he had been carried away by 
a superior force. How was it then that 
those lightly uttered words, “ Oh, I’d kill 
you as I would a wasp ! ” thrilled him 
through and through, and made him 
shiver? 

“ I’ll have no papers, not a scrap of writ- 
ing between us,” Alexander went on. 

“ I exact the fullest confidence on your 
part, and I forbid you to meddle with any- 
thing I please to do, and I’ll have no going 
back, mark that.” 

“ It seems to me you are to have it all 
your own way,” Sir Stephen observed, 
with what was intended to be a laugh. 

The remark was put aside with a con- 
temptuous gesture, and had no other 
reply. 

“ I will give you twenty-four hours for 
consideration. Use the time well. I 
will not have you pretend, even to your- 
self, that I snapped you up, that you were 
over persuaded, or any nonsense of that 
sort. Come here this time to-morrow, and 
say ‘ go on,’ and you will be no more able to 
stop me than you could a hundred-pounder 
shot at the mouth of a gun you had fired ; 
and always remember this— you came to 
me. not I to you. You have roused me 
out of the life of a caterpillar in a cabbage 
and I’m not to be roused for nothing. If 
you come here to-morrow and say 4 go on,’ 
I shall sell up all I have and go to Europe.” 

“ To Europe ! ” 

“ Go where I please— that stops foolish 
interruption. I burn my ships — that’s all 
you have to understand. The means I 
shall take with me will last for perhaps a 
year; so you must act sharply, quickly, 
as I bid you.” 

“ It is only fair you should know that 
we have exhausted inquiries in England: 
that we have gone thoroughly to the bot- 
tom of our case on the spot,” said Stephen. 

“You have twaddled about with your 
hearts upon your sleeves,” roared Alex- 
ander. “ You have scratched the surface 
like a set of miserable barn-door fowls. 
Don’t talk to me of your ‘inquiries!’ 
There’s an untouched mine waiting for 
an eye like mine to discover, a hand like 
mine to work.” i 


“ You exact perfect confidence, and yet 
get angry when I tell you the facts.” 

“ That for your facts ! I know what is 
passing in your thoughts, young man; 
you are ashamed of me ” — with a glance 
at his ragged vest — “ you think I am not 
respectable enough to appear in your com- 
pany. Wait. In two hours — but I make 
no promises,” he broke off. “ You shall 
see what you shall see, in my time, and at 
my pleasure. Now go.” 

Sir Stephen Willford, Baronet, was glad 
to go. He gave a gasp of relief as he 
reached the street. One sense bad be- 
come accustomed to the atmosphere of 
smoke and garlic which prevailed within. 
It was not for fresh air that he gasped. A 
sense of moral oppression — mental serv- 
itude— was upon him, deepening, strength- 
ening, in the presence of the man he had 
sought to use as a tool. 

Twenty-four hours’ reflection free from 
this influence did not affect its result; 
but gave birth to many suspicious reasons 
for adopting it, and to pleasant falsi- 
ties by which acquiescence was softened 
down. 

He had stumbled against one of the 
genii, not fallen into the bondage of an 
Old Man of the Sea. His fortune was to be 
augmented as Aladdin’s palace was built — 
out of his sight and without any trouble 
to himself. 

If all went right, he could pay the genii 
his price, dismiss him, and take all the 
credit for his work. If the genii failed, so 
much the worse for him. The sting to his 
self conceit caused by the genii’s scorn 
of his assistance was soothed by this 
reflection. He almost persuaded himself 
that spite towards John Dennis was not 
the mainspring of his action. Was a 
man forbidden to seek his own from 
another because they had quarrelled ? 
Who raised the question about the title to 
that land? His respected father! Who 
commenced the litigation ? His respected 
father ! Whose wish was it that he should 
educate himself to work the problem out? 
His respected father’s! Sir Stephen Will- 
ford became a model for dutiful sons as he 
thought of the extra thousands he might 
gain, and the score of hate he might wipe 


A FAMILY TREE. 


147 


off, by following the steps of his respected 
father. 

At the expiration of the twenty-four 
hours he called again on the recluse of 
Goodchildren Street, and, remembering 
the effect of a laconic “how much?” in 
a previous stage of their transactions, 
thought to repeat it by a jaunty “ go on,” 
when the door was opened. 

Fiasco l The gaunt figure said not a 
word, but turned on its heel, walked slow- 
ly to its seat (upon which it fell heavily), 
and buried its face in its grimy hands. 
After a while he looked up and said : 

“ I have read that the half-drowned 
feel so much pain in coming back to 
life, that they would escape, if they could, 
from the hands which are resuscitating 
them.” 

“ I never was half-drowned,” Stephen 
replied, trying to be jocular. 

“ And I believe that the same feeling 
affects the half-hanged,” growled Alex- 
ander. “ But never fear, they don’t half 
hang now.” 

“ You are not in your usual good spirits 
to-day, sir.” 

“ No. You have upset me with your 
* go on.’ Look here, young man. Suppose 
you had worked for the best part of your 
life in some room, and stored there tools 
which you had invented — machinery, the 
product of your brain, and which had be- 
come more and more perfect under your 
hand ; and that the time came when you 
turned from it all in disgust, and locked 
the doors, and left the place and its con- 
tents to the rust, and the dust, and the 
rats? Do you follow me? And suppose 
that, years afterwards, chance, whim, force 
— anything you like — sent you back to the 
scene of your old labor, and to its imple- 
ments so long disused. Would you not 
pause before that closed door? Would 
no sort of fear come over you that in forc- 
ing it open the whole fabric might come 
crashing down in ruins upon your head? 
That even if you did enter in safety, you 
would see nothing as you had left it? 
That you would find yourself in a tomb, 
where what were once living powers lay 
dead and rotting, with loathsome creatures 
crawling over them? No; you cannot 


follow me!” he cried, starting up, and 
waving his gaunt arms, as though to exor- 
cise the vision. “ How could you ? Let 
us change the subject. Say, have you any 
tastes at all ? ” 

“ I hope so.” 

Sir Stephen flattered himself that he 
was a man of very fine and accurate 
tastes, and wondered what kind of taste 
this unsavory hermit, who lived in such a 
den, could have to speak about. 

“ Ah ! I see,” the thought struck him, as 
he looked round, “he wants to sell his 
books.” 

Judge Alexander did not want to sell 
his books, but had something else to dis- 
pose of. 

“ I told you I should have to raise 
money, as I scorn to ask for a cent in ad- 
vance,” he said. “ Here ” (opening an old 
armoir) “ is what is left of what once was 
a fine collection of bric-a-brac. As it is, it 
would do credit to any cabinet; but such 
things are not cared for here. Some are 
valuable for their age and rarity ; that cup, 
for example, is the old Chelsea ware, of a 
mark much valued by collectors; those 
bronzes are from Pompeii. If I had time 
and money enough to make people think 
that I did not want to sell this, or that, or 
those, I could get a thousand dollars for 
them piecemeal. Give me five hundred 
down for the lot, and they are yours ; or, 
I’ll tell you what,” he added, as he brushed 
the dust off his hands — “ lend me a hun- 
dred pounds on them, and take them to 
London, for sale there.” 

“ I will have them at your own price,” 
Sir Stephen replied. “ We have a cabinet 
of curios at Wharnstead.” 

“ You’ve made a bargain,” grunted Alex- 
ander. “ That in your hand now is a per- 
fect gem — a veritable Cellini, I believe. 
Deserves to repose on a cushion of crim- 
son velvet, under a crystal shade, to de- 
fend its intricate tracery from the dust. 
Look at this sea-weed around the anchor 
— so delicate, so natural!” 

“I wonder where is the lock it was 
made for?” mused the head of the house 
of Willford. 

So you perceive that they were talking 
about a key. 


148 


A FAMILY TREE 


CHAPTER X. 

“what does it mean?” 

Let me see you in my room, Percy, be- 
fore you go to bed,” said Mrs. Tremayne 
to her son, as he and George D’Esmonde 
were starting off towards the smoking- 
room, on the night of the day on which 
Fanny’s ghost story had been so cruelly 
cut short. 

“ Don’t you think we’d better not keep 
Mrs. Tremayne up,” observed George, 
when they were alone in the hall. “ I am 
afraid she is not quite well.” 

“What makes you think so?” asked 
Percy, with anxiety. 

“Well, I thought she was unusually 
silent at dinner, and seemed rather rest- 
less all the evening.” 

“ Oh, is that all! That’s nothing. It’s 
only a thought. Dear mother! She, too, 
mixes her colors with brains, and has 
‘ torts,’ as Handel had, which make her 
fidgety till she has got them safe down on 
canvas. Do you remember her picture of 
Portia and the Prince of Morocco? No; 
1 forgot, you weren’t here when it was 
exhibited. She did not choose the sub- 
ject — not a good or a popular one, for the 
scene is not in the play as it’s acted. A 
rich Manchester man— great fellow for 
modern pictures— ordered it on commis- 
sion. Well, as a thing of color and detail, 
it was just in the dear old mater’s style, 
but of course the success of it (or the fail- 
ure) would be in Portia’s face. She paint- 
ed it full of fear, and that didn’t please 
her. She made it anxious, and that 
wouldn’t do. She hid it in her hands, and 
that pleased her at first, for the hands 
were beautiful, and there was a quiver of 
indecision in one of the fingers which told 
you that, woman like, she wanted to peep 
at what she feared to see. She well might 
have left it so, but some one said it was a 
trick to hide incapacity, so she got angry, 
and painted it out. I remember the time 
well. It was when I came home for my 
first ‘ long,’ and she used to be silent and 
fidget about as she did this evening — 
thinking. She never takes pencil in hand 
till she has the idea trapped in her head. 
We didn’t live here then. We were poor 


folks before Portia— had a cottage in Kent, 
near Southborough, and the mater used 
to go and sit in Southborough Wood to 
think, to wait for Portia’s face to come. 
One day a little commonplace girl passed 
along the path with a bird’s nest, which it 
seemed she had found and taken all by 
her own self. She carried it like a treasure ; 
but woe for her! In the offing appeared 
three big boys, three pirate craft bearing 
down upon this poor little sail, and intend- 
ing (as she supposed) to rob her of her 
nest. The mater saw her hide it in the 
hedge, and sit down near the spot, pre- 
tending to make a daisy chain. 

“ The boys came up, and one of them 
jumped into the ditch, and thrust his hand 
just over where the child’s treasure was 
hidden, but after something else — some- 
thing he did not catch, or did not want, 
which matters not. Mater watched the 
girl’s face, and saw in it — not fear or 
anxiety, but an expression as if she flinched 
from a blow. Portia was finished before 
sunset! The moment chosen was when 
the prince lays his hands upon the leaden 
casket, and is in the act of passing on; 
Portia flinches as if from a blow, is start- 
ing back, and yet there is a subtle touch 
of relief, which shows that the danger has 
passed. Oh, I do so wish you could see 
the picture. I cannot describe it; but you 
understand now what I mean by my 
mother ‘ having a thought.’ You, or I, or 
your sister, may have taken some position 
or given some look which we shall find on 
the line at the Royal Academy next May.” 
They had reached the smoking-room by 
this time. 

“ And find ourselves the humble lump 
of quartz which has disclosed the existence 
of a gold mine,” said D’Esmonde, lighting 
up. 

“ You certainly have a very neat way of 
putting things, George,” was the pleased 
reply. They had become so intimate, that 
it was “ Percy ” and “ George ” now. “ But 
please don’t talk of your sister and lumps 
of quartz. Call it a diamond mine, and 
she the sample gem.” 

“ My dear fellow, Americans cannot 
afford to talk about diamond mines just 
now,” laughed George. 


A FAMILY TREE. 


149 


“Ah! you’re thinking of that ant-hill 
made of rabies.” 

“ Don’t mention it. I tell you that when 
these frauds come up, I am ashamed of 
calling myself an American.” 

“ Oh, they don’t affect you.” 

“ Yes, they do. You — I mean you Eng- 
lish — always generalize, and generalize un- 
fairly. Because you are made to smart 
every now and then by a few rascally 
Yankees, you think that all Americans 
are rogues. Because we speak the same 
language, and call things by the same 
names, you think that the meaning is the 
same. It isn’t. J-u-d-g-e in England 
spells a man of learning, probity, and cul- 
ture, who administers justice. It spells 
the like for us in a few instances; but 
according to rule it means a party hack, 
who gains the bench by party tricks, and 
spreads his robes to cover party frauds. 
So you argue : Good Lord ! what a people ! 
Why, they cannot find an honest man to 
be a judge! ” 

“ You admit that you don't find him. 
Does it not come to about the same thing 
in the end ? ” 

“ Not for the present argument. Again, 
you hear that we have no social distinctions, 
that clerks, and what you call shop-boys, 
form our golden youth, and you smile a 
sickly smile when we speak of 4 good so- 
ciety.’ People are what you make them. 
You — the dominant race here — have agreed 
that clerks and shop-boys are cads, and, 
accordingly, cads they are made. You 
despise them, and, by the inevitable law 
of Nature, they become more or less des- 
picable. We — the dominant race over the 
water— agree to respect all men, and take 
them as we find them. When a shop-boy 
behaves like a gentleman, we treat him as 
such, respect him, and, by the inevitable 
law of Nature, he becomes respectable. 
If trade of itself is to make one a cad, the 
bigger the trade the greater the cad. There 
is no sense in your distinctions.” 

“ They don’t work badly,” said Percy. 

“ They are utterly delusive and mis- 
chievous when you apply them to us or 
any other foreign nation, as you are so 
fond of doing. The standard of our judges 
is no criterion of our national respect for 


justice, nor do the social qualities of your 
clerks and shop-boys form any guide for 
estimating the presentibility of ours. Now 
do you see what I mean ? ” 

“ Here’s to our better acquaintance in 
soda and b — ” said Percy, “ and now, if 
you’ll excuse me, I’ll run up and see what 
my mother wants.” 

***** 

He found her sitting, dressed as she had 
left the drawing-room, by the side of her 
toilette-table, with a box in which she 
kept her trinkets open beside her, and so 
absorbed in thought, that he had to knock 
loudly several times before she moved and 
answered him. 

“Well, raammie, dear, what is it?” he 
asked, gaily ; “ D’Esmonde was afraid you 
were ill, but I knew better. I told him 
you were struggling with a thought. What 
is it? Have I given you a new idea for 
Cincinnatus, or is pretty Fanny to be 
made beautiful for ever as Titania? ” 

“ Sit down,” she replied, not appearing 
to notice his raillery. “ Sit down there 
and listen, my son.” 

She never called him 44 my son ” unless 
there was something serious on hand; so 
his manner changed in a moment, and he 
did as she bade him. 

When you were asking me the other 
day to tell you about our family affairs, I 
told you that I had one, and only one, 
heir-loom.” 

44 Which you promised to show me.” 

44 And now I keep my word. Here it 
is.” And she gave him the gold key, the 
haft of which was shaped like a heart en- 
twined with forget-me-nots, and watched 
him as the blood rose to his face and brow. 

“How very extraordinary!” he ex- 
claimed. 44 What does it mean, mother? 
Why, this is the very brother of that which 
George D’Esmonde wears, and is an heir- 
loom in his family ! 

44 Only that it is gold, and his is silver,” 
replied his mother. 44 The main design of 
his is a Cross— of ours a heart. Have you 
not seen branches of charms typifying 
Faith , Hope, and Charity ? The Cross 
stands for Faith; the Heart for Charity. 
I noticed Mr. D’Esmonde’s key carefully. 


150 


A FAMILY TREE. 


Do you remember that I left the room to 
get my glasses, and took it with me?” 

“ I do, now that you remind me.” 

“ It was only an excuse. I wanted to 
compare it with mine. Percy, I have no 
doubt but that they were both made by 
the same hand, and that a master hand 
also, and that they were at least two hun- 
dred years old. That is all I can say. I 
cannot answer your question — what does 
it mean ? Iam lost in wonder.” 

“ My dear mother, fifty sets of keys in 
the shape of Hearts and Crosses may have 
been made.” 

“ But how comes it that in my family 
(which was Italian for centuries) there is 
a gold key fashioned like a Heart, which 
we have been bidden to keep as though it 
■were a holy relic; and that in Mr. D’Es- 
monde’s (of which he is the first member 
to leave America) there should be a silver 
key of precisely the same style of work- 
manship which has been handed down, as 
he tells us, from father to son, and is sup- 
posed to bring them luck?” 

“ It is a remarkable coincidence,” mused 
Percy. 

“Coincidence!” exclaimed his mother; 
“it is more than that. I feel certain that 
there was — that there may be now, some- 
where — a third key shaped like a Cross in 
—well, most likely iron or steel, and that 
the three together unlock some mystery in 
which we are involved.” 

“ I always thought that I was an en- 
chanted prince,” Percy began. 

“ I forbid you to speak again in that 
tone,” she cried, with flashing eyes, and 
her hot Italian blood, mantled neck, face, 
and bosom as she spoke. “ This is no 
subject for jesting.” 

“Mother dear,” he replied, taking her 
trembling hand and kissing it; “ you know 
1 would not offend you for the world, but 
be just before you are angry. What do I 
know about this that should make it a 
serious subject to me? Your family has 
one curious old key, and D’Esmonde’s has 
another, that is all I know. After w T hat 
you have said, of course I will never joke 
about it again, out of respect for you ; but 
really, I think I am old enough, and, ac- 
cording to your own conviction, interested 


enough to be allowed to judge the whole 
subject according to its merits.” 

“ You imagine I am keeping some secret 
from you?” 

“ If the subject be serious, you must be 
doing so, for as yet you have told me noth- 
ing to make it serious.” 

“Do you never have presentiments?” 
she asked, after a long pause. 

“ I am not superstitious, if that is what 
you mean,” he replied, drily. 

“ It is your cold English blood. Ah, no ! 
it is your dear father’s blood,” she added, 
pressing his head against her bosom, and 
kissing his brow, “ and his heart throbbed 
as warmly as heart could throb. Listen, 
dear: I am not keeping any secret from 
you. I will tell you all — everything I 
know, and that is, know as you know 
things. When your poor grandfather was 
sinking for want of what his sickness re- 
quired; when I was starving — not only 
hungry, starving — I took that key to a 
dealer in curiosities, and asked its value. 
It was the only thing we had left to sell. 
He named a sum which overjoyed me. I 
flew, rather than ran, back, and asked 
your grandfather’s leave to sell it. I shall 
never forget the expression which came 
over him. For the first time in his life he 
gave me a harsh word. He made me 
swear I would never part with it except to 
you ; and then to exact a similar oath, that 
you would never part with it except to 
your son. I ventured to ask him why. 

* Because It is the key to your fortune and 
his,’ he replied. ‘ It has brought none to 
you,’ I said. ‘No,’ he said, very sadly, 

‘ but the worst has come now, and the 
better time is at hand.’ That was all he 
would say and is all I know , but I feel as 
he felt — though without the knowledge he 
may have had — that the better time is at 
hand.” 

“ Then the D’Esmondes will share in it?” 

“ Let them. Why not ? ” 

“ Will you tell them what you think? ” 

“ Not yet. I will get Fanny to tell me 
that story in detail. Her brother only 
gave us the outline. Get him to talk 
more about it, and we will decide w T hat is 
to be done before they leave. Ah, Percy, 
I do wish ” 


A FAMILY TREE. 151 


“What, mother? ” 

“ No matter. It is all in God’s hands. 
Good-night, my son.” 

***** 

“ You will oblige me very much, dear,” 
said George D’Esmonde to his sister the 
next morning, “ if you would not mention 
that subject — you know what I mean — 
again. It is not one to joke about.” 

“Well, I won’t — there!” Fanny replied, 
with frank confession and regret ; “ I was 
led — I ran over — I — my own thoughts ran 
away with me. There, don’t look so 
grave. Of course I’ll do as you wish ; but, 
after all, there can be nothing in it.” 

“ I am not so sure of that.” 

“ You dear old goose ! Do you suppose 
that you will some day meet an enchanter 
who will say, 4 Ha! that key! you are the 
great-great-grandson of the Princess of 
Persia, who eloped with the King of the 
Golden Mountain in the year one, and are 
the rightful Emperor of China.’ ” 

“Not quite that,” he replied, smiling; 
but remember this dear, our poor father 
was not a trifler. He respected that 
tradition, and greatly prized its token. 
His father did so before him, so why 
should not we ? ” 

Fanny’s eyes filled with tears as he 
spoke. 

“ I wish you had given me a good scold- 
ing, she said, “ instead of speaking so 
kindly.” 

He drew her to him, and kissed her. 

“ We have only each other now, dar- 
ling,” he said, with a saddened smile. 
“ We must not scold.” 

And so it ended. 

You will understand after this, that 
when Mrs. Tremayne and her son returned 
to the charge, they took nothing by their 
motion, and became all the more curious. 

“ They are evidently on their guard,” 
Mrs. Tremayne observed to her son the 
next evening; “and it is quite clear that 
there is more in it than that bald story of 
Mr. D’Esmonde’s contains.” 

“ He gave us a mere skeleton.” 

“Not even that; there’s no back-bone 
in it. Why was that man seeking a lost 
son ? Why should he give him that key ? 
Why — having said nothing as to its value 


or interest — should the boy treasure it, 
and hand it down to his posterity ? ” 

“Your last question is one we cannot 
answer about ours,” mused Percy. “ Per- 
haps he knows no more than we do.” 

“Percy, I detest subterfuge; and Iain 
determined to find out what all this 
means. Suppose I were to ihow Mr. 
D’Esmonde my key, and frankly ask to 
exchange confidence? ” 

“My dear mother! What have you to 
give in exchange ? ” 

“ True,” she observed, rather chap-fallen. 

“ You have nothing to tell him,” Percy 
resumed. “ If you get him to begin, how 
would you look when it came to your 
turn ? If he ask you to commence, where 
are you ? ” 

“Wisely put, my son. No; that will 
not do.” 

“ But surely you could gain some in- 
formation otherwise. Have you quite lost 
sight of all your Italian relations and 
friends ? ” 

“ Quite. Your poor grandfather was 
morbidly sensitive on that point. He re- 
pelled all attempts at intercourse, refused 
every offer of assistance. Everything or 
nothing, was his maxim. He kept me in 
absolute ignorance of our history.” 

“ Still, famous as he was, there must be 
many now living who could clear this up.” 

“ His public acts are well known ; but 
these would give us no clue to what the 
key means. The secret — if there be one — 
dates far beyond his time.” 

“ Some member of his family might 
know it,” Percy said. “ Think, mother, 
was there no one who visited him in his 
exile, and had his confidence? ” 

“ As to confidence , I cannot say; he was 
so reserved,” Mrs. Tremayne replied, half 
musing to herself. “ But there was, as I 
now remember, one who was very kind 
to me, and whose visits he just tolerated. 
Strange, how things come back ! ” 

“ Let them come. Who was this one, 
mother ? ” 

“ A secretary of what was then the 
Sardinian Legation.” 

“ Good, so far. And his name ? ” 

“ Tasti — yes, the Count de Tasti.” 

“Well, suppose we find the Count de 


152 


A FAMILY TREE. 


Tasti. I know a man in the Foreign 
Office who could unearth him. He may 
be an ambassador by this time.” 

“ Or dead.” 

“ I prefer his being an ambassador,” 
Percy said, gaily. “Ambassadors don’t 
die. My friend in the F. O. tells me that 
the junior members of the diplomatic ser- 
vice make this a special grievance.” 

“ Percy, be serious.” 

“ Certainly. May I write and ask? ” 

“ It would do no harm.” 

So Percy wrote, and obtained this 
reply 

“ My dear Tremayne, 

“Not to know Tasti proclaims your- 
self utterly unknown. Though disgusted 
(wise creature) with politics, he is Victor 
Emmanuel’s right hand man, and knows 
more about Italy and the Italians than all 
the ministers since Cavour. Added to 
this, he is a right good fellow, and fond of 
everything British. You may certainly 
write to him, and I will guarantee a cour- 
teous answer. 

“ Yours sincerely, 

“ A. T. Dockette.” 

“That’s one step, mother mine,” said 
Percy, triumphantly. “ Viva il Conte de 
Tasti ! At him, mother, in your best lingua 
Toscana ! Take heart. Several sheets of 
paper, and a new pen, and hey for the 
mystery of the keys ! We’ll have our quid 
for Master George’s quo .” 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE NEW MR. ALEXANDER. 

Sir Stephen Willford was going 
down to breakfast on the morning after 
his purchase of those “curios,” when a 
bell-boy, with a card in his hand, met and 
informed him that there was “ a man 
hunting him down stairs.” The card was 
“ the man’s ” card, and on it was written 
Judge Alexander. 

A vision of grimy shirt-sleeves and rag- 
ged slippers flashed over the baronet’s 
fastidious mind, and his first impulse was 
flight — anywhere, anywhere out of a world 
haunted by so disreputable a spectre. It 


did not strike him that, being unknown to 
anyone there, it did not matter who called 
upon him ; and that in a land of universal 
suffrage— which once put up for President 
a candidate whose love for Republican 
principles was in part evinced by his neg- 
lect of soap — dirty shirt-sleeves might be a 
recommendation rather than otherwise. 
Nor did he consider that ragged slippers 
and visiting-cards were incompatible. The 
bell-boy had called his visitor a “ man ” — 
not a “gentleman,” or even a “person,” 
but a man — and in so doing had followed 
one of the rules of his tribe, which is to 
discourage callers, by misnaming them, 
misdelivering their messages, and other- 
wise taking revenge upon them for the 
trouble they give. 

But flight was impossible. 

“ Better have him up here,” thought Sir 
Stephen, “ than face him in public below.” 

So he directed accordingly, and up “ the 
man ” was shown. 

A tall, gaunt man, dressed in a morning 
suit of dark grey, well-blacked boots on 
his feet, gloves on his hands, snowy linen 
at his throat and wrists — a man he might 
have greeted in St. James Street at five 
o’clock p.m. in May, and might have been 
taken for a cabinet minister! A man 
(mark this, if you please) who wore new 
clothes, which did not look new. Was this 
the recluse of Goodchildren street? Where 
was his stubby beard, his long, dank, un- 
combed locks, his strident voice? All 
gone ! But the eyes were there, with their 
dark, pent-house eyebrows, and the wolf 
looking out ; there was no mistaking them. 

Sir Stephen stood aghast, fairly as- 
tounded by the metamorphosis, and could 
not even stammer out a good morning. 

The other took no notice of his astonish- 
ment, farther than to say — 

“You did not expect to see me so early, 
my dear Sir Stephen. I have taken the 
liberty of inviting myself to breakfast, so 
that I might be sure to catch you. You 
young men have so many engagements.” 

In the breakfast room the judge’s domi- 
neering ways came out, also in new clothes. 
In the mildest manner, and the blandest 
tones, he upset most of the arrangements 
of the hotel. He discharged the waiter 


A FAMILY TREE. 


153 


attached to the table he chose, and ap- 
pointed another in his stead, in spite of 
his indignant assertion that, “ Shure, he 
was the man that belonged to it.” He 
took command, and gave his orders as 
though he was the Amphitryon, and the 
house was his own. 

“You will bring in the dishes I have 
marked one by one,” he directed the at- 
tendant of his choice. “ You will not 
order the cook to prepare any one of them 
until you have placed its predecessor be- 
fore me. Presume to surround me with 
half a score of little, greasy, half-cold dabs 
of this and that, and you will find that I 
am capable of throwing them through the 
"window — through , observe— and I will not 
pay for the glass. Take this away, imme- 
diately. A rational human being does not 
inundate a fasting stomach with a pint of 
iced water. Stay; if there be any scum 
on the hot milk, you can take it back ; and 
you may present my compliments — Judge 
Alexander’s compliments — to the pro- 
prietor, and say that I desire a cup— two 
cups, for my friend is also particular — 
which will weigh somewhat less than 
half a pound each. Do you quite under- 
stand ? ” 

The waiter, who was a German, and 
found himself addressed, to his delight, in 
the tongue of his fatherland, and in the 
tone which its charming institutions autho- 
rize bis superiors to use, did understand, 
and gave little cause for complaint through- 
out the breakfast. 

“Now,” said the judge, when he had 
tossed off a demi tasse of Ch arte reuse, “ we 
will proceed to business; and for that pur- 
pose adjourn to your room where we shall 
be undisturbed.” 

He led the way upstairs, motioned his 
entertainer to a seat, and thus began — 

“ I have changed my plans, slightly. At 
first I intended to go to England alone, 
but you will accompany me.” 

This was a surprise. Accompany him 
to England! Break the compact with 
John Dennis, and brave that old scandal! 
It might be done after he had beaten him 
at law, but before?— it might ruin every 
chance. He stammered something about 
“ not convenient just at present,” but the 


judge merely repeated his words, “ You 
will accompany me,” with such decision, 
that there was nothing for it but to make 
a clean breast, and tell him about the card 
case and its consequences. 

“A mismanaged affair,” he said, when 
the tale was told, “ that furnishes me with 
a little farther trouble to clear it up. No” 
(after a pause), “ I think it can be turned 
to some use, now I consider. You will 
give me the names of the persons engaged, 
and assist me to find them as soon as we 
arrive. Now, as we are to work together, 
I am going to tell you all I know of 
our great case — our case against Mr. 
Dennis.” 

“ Take care,” Sir Stephen remarked 
jauntily — he had relieved his mind, and 
was inclined to be pleasant — “ Take care 
I don’t ‘go back upon you,’ as you say 
here, when I know as much as you do.” 

“ I am not afraid of that,” was the grim 
reply. 

“ Quite right. I was only jesting, as you 
were when you talked of killing me, the 
other day.” 

“ If you went back on me,” said Alex- 
ander, still in his new voice, “ I would 
shoot you on Fleet street at noonday, if 
necessary. I would poison you at break- 
fast, and dine none the worse afterwards. 
If you fancy that I have been jesting, or 
that I shall hereafter jest, on this subject, 
you are fooled. Get that idea out of your 
head, young man.” 

“I suppose I must humor you,” Sir 
Stephen replied, with a smile, but feeliug 
uncomfortable under it. “ When a gentle- 
man gives his word, it is supposed he will 
keep it, and not considered good taste to 
threaten what will happen if he don’t, and 
you must excuse my saying, Judge, that 
your manner is just a little dictatorial.” 

“ Sir, my mind is dictatorial. It is the 
superior mind. Its light throws yours into 
shadow. That my manner should strike 
you as dictatorial was inevitable, and is 
not capable of alteration. Let this pass, 
and do not interrupt me again. When 
your father’s lawyers advised him that the 
only way to meet the ‘ adverse possession ’ 
plea put in by John Dennis, was to prove 
fraud in the original occupation of the 


154 


A FAMILY TREE. 


land, or some acknowledgment, by pay- 
ment of rent, or otherwise, that it was 
held of a superior landlord, they treated 
him and his ancestors as common squat- 
ters, and never troubled themselves to seek 
evidence of fraud. The land was given, 
by Royal grant, to old Stephen Willford. 
His son, Charles, inherited it, and his 
grandson did not. Why not? During 
that son’s lifetime one, Gregory Dennis, 
appears as its owner. How? Suppose 
we can show that this Gregory Dennis 
defrauded Charles Willford, and that all 
the Dennises who followed have kept up 
the cheat, and so despoiled all the Will- 
fords who followed, of their rights, what 
becomes of their Statute of Limitations 
then ? Prescription does not run against 
fraud. Do you understand me ? ” 

“ Perfectly. But you only suppose such 
a fraud.” 

“ Charles Willford was a fanatic. Not 
such a one as his father, but a sincere 
fanatic. Perhaps he was disgusted with 
the state of society in your England under 
its Stuarts, perhaps he was a little mad, 
perhaps — well, I am dealing with facts, 
and so we’ll leave conjectures alone. He 
came to this country within a year of his 
father’s death, and wandered about, preach- 
ing, from place to place. That old key I 
sold you belonged to him, and one of his 
fancies was to wear it hung round his 
neck. He never remained long in one 
place, but from time to time came back to 
Baltimore, where he found, and wrote 
letters. Some of the letters written to him 
came into my possession years ago, on the 
death of my mother.”’ 

“ Did I not understand you to say that 
you were descended from him? ” 

“ You did. Fanatic and wanderer as he 
was, he found a woman to marry him, or 
his money — for he had plenty, and scat- 
tered it broadcast — and she bore him two 
children — one he took away with him in 
one of his wanderings, and lost; the other 
she carried to England after his death, or, 
rather, supposed death, for we never found 
out exactly when or where he died. The 
lost son was adopted by a French family 
of this city, and afterwards identified. I 
am descended from him. His elder brother 


became the first baronet in your family — 
Sir Austin Willford.” 

“ What did the widow do when she got 
home— to England, I mean?” asked the 
present baronet. 

“ She claimed her dower out of the lands 
which now form part of the Wharnstead 
estate, and other property, and established 
her son’s rights to what old Stephen had 
left, all but the Grange, Hallowfield, and 
King’s Morton holdings.” 

“ The very lands in dispute with John 
Dennis!” cried Sir Stephen, in a disap- 
pointed and injured tone. 

“ The very lands affected by the fraud,” 
replied Alexander. 

The baronet gave a sigh of relief. This 
was getting interesting. 

“ The letters written to Charles Willford 
were all from one person — Gregory Den- 
nis (or Deny s , as the name was then 
spelled) — and for the most part contain 
comments upon what Willford had written. 
This Gregory was evidently an illiterate 
man, and did not trust himself to be fluent 
on paper. He addresses his correspon- 
dent as ‘ honored sir,’ writes of things he 
had done at King’s Morton as his ‘ humble 
duty,’ and makes use of many other 
phrases (which you shall read in the ori- 
ginal, and judge for yourself) that make 
their relative positions clear. Charles was 
the master, Gregory his servant. Now 
give me all your attention. One of these 
letters concludes with some very remark- 
able words, important enough in them- 
selves, but which, if supported, as by 
further inquiry they may be, will place you 
in possession of the Grange, Hallowfield, 
and King’s Morton properties. Is that 
plain ? ” 

“ It is indeed ! ” Sir Stephen answered, 
pale with delight and excitement, “ but do 
you mean to say you have had this evi- 
dence in your possession for years ? ” 

“ For some twelve years.” 

“ And did not tell my father ! ” — re- 
proachfully. 

“Pshaw! Your father! Have I not 
told you that he peddled and pumped, and 
hinted,” replied the judge, “and never 
came to the point! Besides I had money 
then — had enough to eat and drink and be 


A FAMILY TREE. 


155 


lazy. Why should I have troubled my- 
self for him — for nothing? What did it 
matter to me who held the lands. If it 
had suited me to turn John Dennis out, I 
would have gone and done it myself— 
myself young man ! The credit, the praise 
should have been mine. Am I a man to 
be pumped, and made a cat’s paw ! To 
have my brains sucked by a prosy letter? 
He should have come to me as you have 
done, and perhaps he might have got what 
you will get.” 

“ He very nearly sent me,” said the 
baronet. 

“ I would not have treated with a subor- 
dinate,” the judge replied haughtily. 

“ Well, you have the principal now, and 
he places himself unreservingly in your 
hands. Oh! Judge Alexander, how can 
I properly express my gratitude for your 
immense services, or my admiration of 
your talent? ” 

Sir Stephen was quite humble in his joy. 

Alexander waved his hand, as though to 
deprecate this flattery, and smiled. 

“ I wonder if the letters from Charles 
to this Gregory are in existence,” mused 
Stephen. 

“ I rather hope they are not,” replied 
the judge. 

“ They might put a different complexion 
on our case ? ” 

“ They might, but what you call * our 
case ’ is, thus far, only a part of the founda- 
tion upon which it will be built. Troops 
of facts, and suggestions leading to facts, 
which have escaped your mere plodders at 
home; will come out under my search.” 

“ When will you show me that letter? ” 

“ Not yet.” 

“ But you will tell me its contents ? you 
remember them I suppose. What was the 
nature of the fraud ? How did this Greg- 
ory get possession of the land ? ” 

“That you shall know at the proper 
time.” 

“This is playing with me, Mr. Alex- 
ander.” 

“You can give up the game if it does 
not please you,” said the judge with a 
cynical shrug; “only as long as w’e play 
partners — I lead.” 

“ Of course you lead, but this groping in 


the dark is very irritating to me. It’s 
wretched play to keep your partner in the 
dark.” 

“ Well, it will not be for long anyhow,” 
the judge said, laying a hand patronizingly 
on his shoulders ; “ so don’t be irritated.” 

“ When will you show me those letters ? ” 

“ As soon as we are in London.” 

“ Not before? ” 

“ They are packed up.” 

“Indeed! are you — are we to start 
soon ? ” 

“ This evening at five o’clock.” 

“ You take my breath away,” laughed 
the baronet. “Well, I am ready. What 
a surprise it will be ! Ah, this reminds 
me of something about which I want your 
opinion. That cousin of mine who was 
to have been my father’s heir has been 
managing Wharnstead since — since the 
fuss, you know — without a regular salary, 
wants me to make him my agent for five 
years.” 

“ Then make him.” 

“ But he wants a ^ow-sand a year!” Sir 
Stephen’s pocket was a sensitive organ 
and he announced its assault upon it with 
a wince. 

“ Give it him,” said the judge decisively, 
“ and a handsome present to boot. Why 
man, don’t you see that your policy is 
conciliation and liberality. I dare say 
this cousin has been making friends of the 
mammon of unrighteousness after the 
scriptural plan. Be friends with the popu- 
lar man. Beat him at his own game ; you 
can screw up the tenants again when your 
foot-hold is firm. A thousand a year ! it 
is cheap as dirt. Respect for your poor 
father’s intentions; liberality to a man 
who schemed (of course he schemed) to 
supplant you ! amiable wish to heal up old 
sores — ! there is an immense amount of 
capital to be made out of it. Is he mar- 
ried ? ” 

“ No, but he’s going to be.” 

“ Then take the bride elect a pair of the 
handsomest bracelets you can buy at 
Tiffaney’s, and make his pay date back to 
the old man’s death.” 

“ I couldn’t do it,” cried Sir Stephen 
aghast ; “ I havn’t got the money.” 

“ Promise it — that will do as well ; but 


156 


A FAMILY TREE. 


let me buy the bracelets. There must be 
no stinginess there. ” 

And indeed there was not. Eight hun- 
dred dollars went into Mr. Tiffaney’s bank 
the day they arrived in New York, as one, 
result of this conversation. 

“ There’s one thing,” chuckled the ser- 
vant, “ about this land agency, that we 
did not think of. When I get the Grange 
he’ll have more than he bargained for to 
do.” 

“ Meaning your cousin ? ” 

“ Of course. I’ll make him throw that 
in.” 

Alexander looked at him steadily for a 
moment, and then walked on. 

“ There is a proverb about counting 
chickens before they are hatched,” he ob- 
served, when he had swallowed down his 
rising contempt. 

“ That reminds me. I was thinking 
about your supposed fraud, last night. 
Doesn’t it rather go against us that Charles 
Willford’s widow didn’t find it out when 
she returned and claimed the rest of his 
property ? ” 

“ Not at all. The lands were nearly 
valueless then. Besides she had quarrelled 
with her husband before she left — who 
could get on with a man who wandered 
about the country like a beggar, and 
wasted his means like a madman ? She 
did not know what his possessions were. 
She found out some of them from honest 
friends of old Stephen. Gregory Dennis 
was not likely to lend a helping hand. The 
very fact that he did not, damns him. So 
the fact you mention is a two-edged sword, 
and cuts both ways. Wait till you see the 
letter and then you will understand.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ FRAILTY, THY NAME IS ” . 

The time was now approaching when 
Percy might expect an answer to his ulti- 
matum, which he supposed had reached 
his cousin at New York. But he did not 
begin to expect it; not, at any rate, with 
that feverish impatience which had marked 
his waiting for the baronet’s first reply to 
his proposition. Then he was at Wharn- 


stead, and found it lonely work living by 
himself in the great dead house. He had 
little else to do than watch for the post- 
man; and when that functionary had 
passed, there was no use for the hours 
until the time came round when he might 
be looked for again, plodding slowly — dis- 
gracefully slowly, as it appeared to the ex- 
pectant — along the winter-stricken road. 

It was different now. He was at home, 
with plenty to occupy and cheer him. 
There was his mother, who spoiled him ; 
George D’Esmonde, who interested him; 
and Fanny — yes, there was Fanny, who 
made the house very pleasant— Fanny, 
with her pretty impulsive ways, her de- 
light in small things, her fresh and quaint 
remarks, her wondrous faculty of finding 
out what pleased, and doing it. I say still, 
that no disloyalty to Bessie Raynor en- 
tered his heart ; but a subtle, half-formed 
emotion — something between a hope and 
a wish — that Bessie would prove in time 
more like Miss D’Esmonde than he had 
hitherto found her, did give some feeble 
taps there. Fanny was so thoroughly a 
home bird. When visitors came down 
from London — as they did in flocks on a 
Saturday afternoon — to the river-side villa, 
she was not seen to advantage. 

Now Bessie, on the contrary, did not 
shine in her home circle. She seldom 
graced it with her fair presence till about 
three o’clock in the afternoon, unless 
somebody called. She had the reputation 
of being snappish with her brothers and 
sister, and not over respectful to her 
parents, since Mrs. Rose had taken her in 
hand ; and the servants hated her. This 
the fond lover set down to her superiority. 
They did not understand the grand, beau- 
tiful creature, who was all smiles and 
sweetness to him — or any other worship- 
per who knelt at her well-worn altar steps. 
To him she was perfection, until he had 
seen Fanny D'Esmonde. 

Well, he had not much experience of 
young ladies. He entertained that lofty 
idea, common to gentlemen of his age, 
that he would be able to mould his Bessie 
into his own ideal — say into a sort of 
glorified Fanny — and neutralise all the 
evil teaching of Mrs. Rose by the strength 


A FAMILY TREE. 


157 


of his character and the depth of his affec- 
tion. All his hopes turned upon the con- 
tents of that letter — that letter from Sir 
Stephen Willford which might, as the days 
passed, be awaiting him at Wharnstead. 
But still he was in no hurry to return. 
Perhaps he wished to study Fanny’s cha- 
racter thoroughly, in order to be better 
able to engraft its beauties upon Bessie. 

Another reason for lingering was that 
Count de Tasti might be heard from with- 
in a week. The interest in the answer 
from New York paled in the glory of the 
news expected from Turin; but the Count 
made no sign, and as business could no 
longer be postponed, Percy’s holiday came 
to an end. 

***** 

He was glad to find no letter from Sir 
Stephen in the pile of correspondence 
which had accumulated on his desk at 
"Wharnstead. The scene of his former im- 
patience, and objects associated with its 
cause, partially revived it. He would have 
felt guilty if that letter had got the start 
of him; and his breathing quickened, and 
his hand quivered, as he searched for it. 

“ You mustn’t mind, old man, if I leave 
you on your own hook to-morrow,” he 
said to George D’Esmonde, after their 
first bachelor dinner together. “ There’s 
such a lot of things to do. Sunday will 
give me breathing time, and I’ll drive you 
over to the Grange on Monday, and see 
about what shooting is left.” 

“ I’m in no hurry about presenting my 
introduction to Mr. Dennis,” George re- 
plied. “ It looks so like sending in a bill.” 

“Mr. Dennis is not the sort of man to 
take it so.” 

“ Well, then, I dare say he’ll find me 
out.” 

Amongst the “ lot of things ” which 
Percy had to do, was to call on the Ray- 
nors. The doctor would be thinking 
badly of him if he did not go and report 
that he had, as yet, no reply from Sir 
Stephen. Besides, he would see Bessie. 

Mrs. Raynor and Mary were in the 
drawing-room, and it was past the time at 
which the lady of his love was usually visi- 
ble; but no Bessie appeared. Under all 
the circumstances, he did not like to ask 


for her ! and he observed, with some sur- 
prise, that her name was not mentioned. 
At other times, Mrs. Raynor had been 
fond of talking to him about Bessie. So 
he sat, and waited, and exchanged com- 
mon-places, and watched the door, like an 
amorous terrier at a rat-hole. 

At last Mrs. Raynor relieved his sus- 
pense. 

“ Percy,” she said, laying a hand on his 
sleeve, “ I know what is passing in your 
mind, for the doctor has told me what you 
said to him the other day. You are look- 
ing for Bessie. She’s not here, Percy; 
she’s gone.” 

“ Gone ! ” 

“ Yes; back again to Mrs. Rose.” 

“ Why, I thought she was to remain 
with you till May ! ” he exclaimed. 

“It was so arranged; but — you must 
know the truth, Percy. She had a tiff 
with her sister, and was not quite as re- 
spectful as she ought to have been to me, 
when I spoke to her about it; for Mary 
was right. And then her father came in, 
and I suppose something had worried him 
— poor man, he has so much upon his 
mind — and he spoke sharply, and she lost 
her temper — quite forgot herself, I am 
sorry to say— and packed up her boxes, 
and left us. Oh, Percy ! we have lost all 
control over her, and I don’t think she 
loves any of us any more,” sobbed the 
mother. 

The sterner parent was more outspoken. 

“ I tell you what it is, ray boy. The 
girl w’ould make a capital duchess, or a 
wife for a Manchester warehouseman, with 
ten pounds a day for pin money. Give 
her a carriage to loll in, an opera box, and 
the family diamonds, and I dare say she’d 
have the temper of an angel. But she 
won’t do for a poor man, or for a quiet 
life ; so get her out of your head as quickly 
as you can.” 

All this was kindly meant, only it did 
not answer with Percy. His dear, high- 
spirited Bessie! his poor, ill-used pet! 
Misunderstood at home, and driven to 
the side of a fast widow, who made her 
the talk of London ! He would show them 
how mistaken they had all been, if only 
that trifling cousin would answer his 


158 


A FAMILY THEE. 


letters. He got terribly impatient about 
it now. 

Perhaps he would have been less enthu- 
siastic had the origin of the “ tiff ” with 
Mary been stated. If the Raynors had 
told him the whole truth, he would have 
learned that no sooner had his back been 
turned to spend Christmas with his 
mother, than Miss Bessie plunged into a 
violent flirtation with the new curate, an 
able-bodied young Irishman, who had 
more than his share of the pleasant 
faculty (bestowed by nature upon his 
countrymen) of falling in love upon the 
slightest provocation. In this case, the 
provocation was not slight. Even meek, 
retiring Mary was scandalised, and acted 
as an elder sister should, with the result 
already recorded. 

George D’Esmonde was found out by 
the family at the Grange, as visitors are 
often found out in the country. They 
met at church, and the married daughter 
(Mrs. Bowring), whom he had known at 
New Orleans, and was staying on a visit 
with her father, pounced upon George 
when the sermon was over, and demanded, 
with graceful indignation, how he dared 
to be within a mile of the Grange without 
calling. 

Satisfactory explanations having been 
made, and introductions performed, the 
parties joined and walked together to the 
Grange for luncheon — Percy with Mrs. 
Bowring, George with her unmarried sister, 
Grace Dennis, and Paterfamilias in skir- 
mishing order, exchanging greeting with 
neighbors, front, flank and rear. 

This John Dennis is forty-two years of 
age, but looks younger — a handsome man, 
with well-cut features and bright active 
eyes, the sort of man that most of us would 
rather (to use a slang phrase) dine with 
than fight. 

“ The Grange,” George D’Esmonde wrote 
his sister, soon after this visit, “ is a charm- 
ing old place. You will be delighted with it. 
Place two capital T’s foot to foot, thus : 



and you have the shape of it. The foot of 


the T’s in front is the porch— in rear, a 
conservatory. The heads of the T’s in 
front is old — the rear new. The lodge of 
the building was originally one long room, 
but is now divided by oaken screens into 
three. We never saw such oak — as black 
as jet, as hard as steel, and carved with 
the quaintest devices. Some of it was 
taken from part of a wing which had to be 
pulled down, and, will you believe it? 
some Philistine Dennis of the dark ages 
had it whitewashed ! But you are to see 
all this, and more, for yourself. Mrs. 
Bowring is here, and her children. I en- 
close a joint letter from her and Miss 
Dennis, insisting upon your coming here 
as soon as I am tired of ‘ bachelor hall,* 
as they call Percy’s domain. I am to go 
and bring you. Mrs. B., whom we knew 
as the mildest of the mild, is here a tyrant 
of the first water, and from her ukase there 
is no appeal. You will like her sister 
Grace. Expect me in about a week. 
Percy is a capital fellow, and does every- 
thing to make things pleasant, but his 
cousin, Sir Stephen Willford, has inflicted 
upon him another guest, for whom I have 
acquired a most unchristian aversion, 
though he is a countryman — not a good 
specimen. I prefer the Grange, with you ” 
(the last two words were interlined, with 
a caret). “ Give my best regards to Mrs. 
Tremayne, &c., &c., &c.” 

It was upon their return to Wharnstead 
from luncheon at the Grange, that the 
other guest first appeared to Percy and 
George D’Esmonde. The fly from the 
station was just being led round the drive, 
as they passed the lodge gate, and they 
beheld in the distance the old butler and 
the odd boy struggling with an immense 
trunk at the servant’s entrance. 

“ A gentleman in the study,” gasped the 
former, as Percy hurried up, a living mark 
of interrogation. “ Says he’s come to stay, 
but where am I to put him ? ” 

“ Mr. Tremayne, I presume,” said the 
new comer when Percy entered. “ Allow 
me to present my card and this letter.” 

On the card was printed — 

“ H. Clay Alexander,” 
and in the letter was written— 


A FAMILY TREE. 


159 


u Dear Percy, 

“This is to introduce my good 
friend, Mr. H. Clay Alexander, a most dis- 
tinguished man, and distant relative of our 
family, in whose history he takes much 
interest. He is visiting Wharnstead to 
seek some facts relating to our genealogy, 
so please hand him over the keys of the 
strong room, and let him have access to 
any old deeds and papers he may care to 
see. I need not add, give him a hearty 
welcome, because that you are sure to do, 
for the sake of 

“Your sincere friend and cousin, 

“ Stephen Willford.” 

No date. 

“I do bid you heartily welcome, Mr. 
Alexander,” Percy said, when he had read 
the above ; “ but really Sir Stephen should 
have been more considerate, for your sake, 
and given me notice of your visit. He 
knows perfectly well that his house has 
been shut up for years, save the few rooms 
1 occupy, and so I am afraid you will have 
to rough it for a day or two.” 

“ I have lived in a palace, sir,” the judge 
began, “ and slept under a tree, with my 
saddle for a pillow. Nothing is too good 
for me, or so bad as to be able to put me 
out of temper. Make no apologies; the 
fault is mine, I should have written. I 
intended to write, but I got through my 
business in London sooner than I expected, 
and to pass a Sunday in your capital, sir, 
is a dreadful infliction upon a stranger. 
Your Sunday trains are bad enough, but 
slowly as they drag along, they afford you 
one comfort — they are taking you away 
from a London Sunday.” 

Percy gave him up his own room, which 
in a short time was ready for his use, but 
did not suit his fancy. The position of 
the bed had to be altered, and its compo- 
sition re-arranged. The dressing-table 
was too large, and he had no use for the 
chest of drawers. “ Let me be brought 
something upon which I can write, in- 
stead,” he commanded. A picture which 
hung facing his pillow as he had placed 
his couch, would annoy him in the early 
morning, so that had to go. He was not 
accustomed to sleep in a room without a 
carpet (Percy, like a sensible man, was) f 


so a carpet had to be dragged out of some 
hidden store, and the bright clean oak 
boards covered with faded wool, plentifully 
engrained wiih dust. “ It is quite as well,” 
he mused, when he could find nothing 
more to be altered, “ that these people 
should learn at once that I am to be 
obeyed.” 

The meeting with the Dennis family at 
church was not allowed to put off the pro- 
posed visit next day to see about shooting. 
John Dennis was an autocrat in most 
things, but did not dare to doom a pheasant 
without previous consultation with his 
head keeper. They (Percy and George) 
w r ere to come over early with their guns, 
and everything would be arranged for 
them. What was to be done now? Throw 
out a delicate hint that the distinguished 
genealogist might commence his labors as 
soon as he pleased, and leave the younger 
men to their own resources? Yes, that 
might do. The trap was balited, and set, 
but the quarry declined to enter. 

“No; I think I shall accompany you,” 
said Alexander. “ I have plenty of time 
before me. I never cared much for hunt- 
ing small birds. My sporting days were 
passed upon the plains of the far West, 
with deer and buffalos, or on the Rocky 
Mountains, with more dangerous game. 
I will accompany you, for the sake of 
seeing something of your country. Mr. 
Dennis, did you say? Not the gentleman 
who had some dispute with the late Sir 
William! Indeed! And you are upon 
friendly terms? Ah! Very gratifying — 
very creditable, I am sure, to you both.” 

Up to this time not a word had been 
said about New Orleans. 

“ A down-easter, evidently,” D’Esmonde 
observed to Percy when they talked the* 
intruder over that night in the former's 
room. 

“ I wonder what Mr. Dennis will think 
of him ? ” mused Percy, somewhat rue- 
fully. 

***** 

Mr. Dennis thought him a “superior 
sort of man,” principally because, for the 
nonce, he put off all his superior ways. 
At all times, even when most dictatorial 
and egotistic, there was a softness and 


160 


A FAMILY TREE. 


dignity about him which gilded the pill. 
The ladies of the Grange, accustomed to 
what we call “ good form,” were delighted 
with his old-fashioned courtesy. He won 
the way to John Dennis’s heart through 
his prize pigs. No boasting, no self-as- 
sertion now. Once or twice whilst going 
through the home farm with his enter- 
tainer, he mildly “ ventured to observe,” 
and out came something which the prac- 
tical squire recognised at once as sound 
criticism, or valuable advice. When 
George and Percy came back to luncheon 
from the park covers, they found the ruth- 
less invader upon such a footing with all 
the family as to make any apology for his 
uninvited appearance unnecessary. 

“ I need not remind you, Mr. Dennis,” 
he was observing as they came in, “ that 
curiosity is a vice innate in us Americans. 
Now do pray excuse me if I ask all sorts 
of questions about this house, and promise 
that you will tell me, right out, the very 
moment I become tiresome? You will? 
Ah, many thanks! To begin, how old 
might it be? ” 

“ The main building is nearly three hun- 
dred years old.” 

“ Three hundred years old ! And it has 
been in your family all that time?” 

“ Most of it.” 

“ May I ask what is that inscription over 
the mantlepiece ? My eyes are not as 
young as they were, and the character is 
singular. It is an inscription, I think.” 

“ You are quite right. The slab of wood 
upon which it is cut was found in my 
grandfather’s time buried under the ruins 
of an old stable. He had it cleansed and 
polished, and when I made some altera- 
tions, I had it let into the wainscoting 
where you now find it.” 

“ I must put on my glasses,” said the 
judge. “Now I can see. Ah! old Eng- 
lish, and the quaint spelling one finds in 
the black letter. How very interesting ! ” 

This was the text he read aloud: 

“SLette JDesmtmb for IBengs goe through 

glith IBenjjs to IBesmontr be true 

l^oe JBengs or JBesmonti tofU rue.” 

Quite like a prophecy of Thomas the 
Rhymer! I suppose the Desmonds and 


Denys of those days were sworn friends, 
and that their descendants fell to logger- 
heads, as usually happens. Is there a 
Desmond family in this neighborhood?” 

“NotNnow,” John Dennis replied, and 
as he spoke the luncheon bell pealed out. 

“ Don’t you rather wish that you spelled 
you name sans apostrophe , and a final 
e?” he said, slapping George D’Esmonde 
playfully on the shoulder, “ that you 
might share in the promise of that old 
legend ? ” 

“ I am quite content as it is,” said 
George, “ and I don’t suppose I could find 
a chance of going ‘ through ’ for you, any- 
how, in these prosaic days.” 

And then they went to luncheon. 

“ Well, how many poor pheasants have 
you massacred?” asked Grace Dennis, 
making way for George, who had been 
told off to a seat by her side. 

“ Don’t ask,” said her father. Mr. D’Es- 
monde will take away a poor idea of our 
shooting if he don’t stay till next October. 
Jackson told me they only got a score of 
shots between them, but they bagged eight 
brace. 

“ Bravo ! ” cried Grace. “ How many 
cartridges was it that Major Taylor ex- 
pended last year for nine birds? ” 

“ Fifty-six. But Taylor is a muff.” 

Our sportsmen had little luck after 
luncheon, and drove back to Wharnstead 
tired, and jolly; George, pleased that he 
had held his own with British pheasants, 
and Percy relieved of the fear that his 
other American guest would not get on 
with the Grangers. 

“ I thought you English county gentle- 
men liked to build yourselves fine houses,” 
observed the judge to Percy after dinner. 
“ How is it that Mr. Dennis, with all his 
wealth, is content with such a compara- 
tively small place ? ” 

“ Chaque oiseau trouve son nid 6ecra,” 
said his host, “ and the old Grange is the 
cradle of his race. Any snob can build a 
grand new house. Besides, he only spends 
the hunting season here.” 

“ And the rest of the year in London, I 
suppose ? ” 

“Yes; he has a house in Eaton Square.” 

“ A new one ? ” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


161 


“Oh, people may have new houses in 
London.” 

“ And how about business? ” 

“ Business, such as his, takes care of 
itself.” 

“ He is a most fortunate man.” 

“And deserves all he enjoys.” 

“A delightful neighbor. Pity he and 
Sir Stephen don’t get on together.” 

“ They are best apart,” said Percy, drily. 

“I don’t quite see that,” the judge re- 
plied, half to himself. “ I shall take an 
early opportunity of making peace between 
them.” 

“ No one would be better pleased than I 
should be, if they could be friends,” said 
Percy. 

“ That is right sir, and does you all the 
more credit as it is opposed to your inter- 
ests,” replied Alexander. 

“My interests! Oh, dear no. I have 
no interest whatever in the matter. I see 
what you mean, but you are quite mis- 
taken. If Sir Stephen comes back a lot 
of disagreeable responsibility will be taken 
off my shoulders, and I should know 
clearly — but that is a private matter. I 
most sincerely hope he may come back, 
and the sooner the better,” said Percy. 

Why the sooner the better? Because 
the idea struck him that if the answer to 
his ultimatum were favorable, and Bessie 
got accustomed to be acting mistress of 
Wharnstead, there might be some trouble 
in reconciling her to a humbler home. 

He had been back nearly a week by this 
time, yet no reply to his ultimatum had 
arrived, and worry re — marked him for its 
own. The possible return of his cousin 
did not promise a speedy termination of 
his suspense. Mr. Dennis had first to be 
consulted, and his answer might be again 
— not yet. Perhaps his letter had mis- 
carried. Alexander might know, so he 
resolved to ask — sideways. 

“Did you make my cousin’s acquaint- 
ance in New York?” he carelessly in- 
quired. 

“ No, sir, he made mine in New Orleans.” 

“ In New Orleans ! When was he there ?” 

“ About a month ago.” 

“ Indeed ! Can you tell me if his letters 
were forwarded to him there ? ” 

11 


“ I really cannot.” 

“ Nor when he left New York ? ” 

“No, not the exact day. Probably 
about five weeks ago.” 

“ Pray excuse me these questions,” said 
Percy drawing nearer. “I am rather 
anxious to hear from him. When he gave 
you that letter of introduction, did he 
mention having recently heard from me? ” 

“Why, of course!” exclaimed Alex- 
ander. “ Dear me ! how forgetful I have 
been. I owe you a thousand apologies for 
such very culpable neglect. About the 
land agency of course! He showed me 
your letter; saying in his light way, * see 
what a hard-headed man of business I 
have; ’ to which I replied, ‘ I congratulate 
you, for the writer is not one to be trifled 
with.’ ” 

“ And yet he does trifle with me, Mr. 
Alexander.” 

“ My fault — entirely my fault. He 
charged me with his reply, and in the 
press of business — but I see you are 
anxious. He said, ‘tell him it’s all right; 
on two conditions.’” 

Percy’s brow clouded. 

“ 1 am sorry there were conditions,” he 
said. “ My terms did not admit any.” 

“ The first,” continued the judge, is, that 
being his agent is not to make you less his 
cousin, and the second that the salary you 
name should date from the day of poor 
Sir William’s death. They are not so very 
onerous — these conditions. Let me re- 
commend you to accept them both.” 

“ If you had only told me this at once,” 
said happy Percy, after some further ex- 
planations, “ what a load you would have 
taken off my heart.” 

Why did not Alexander tell him at 
once? Because his self-dictated instruc- 
tions were these. “ Find out if the man 
be popular or no. If no, gain popularity 
by turning him to the right about. If yes, 
be liberal, and make it that way.” 

“I’ve got to run up to London for a 
couple of days on very particular busi- 
ness,” said Percy, at breakfast the next 
morning, “if you men can excuse me.” 

There was a guilty look upon his face, 
but a halo of triumph all round him. He 
might claim Bessie now ! He stopped at 


162 


A FAMILY TREE. 


Doctor Raynor’s on his way to the station, 
and made known the happy news. A 
thousand a year, and three thousand to 
begin housekeeping with ! Did ever wooer 
speed to woo, over so smooth a road? 
Did ever a train go so slowly. Well, it 
gave him time to think over a thousand 
encouraging trifles; words, looks, sighs, 
eloquent silence under the moonlight, the 
drooping of opal eyes under his ardent 
gaze, admiration expressed and not re- 
sented, hopes suggested and not repelled. 
Surely he had won her! The lightest 
hansom with the fastest horse that he 
could select, was as slow as the express — 
slower after its kind ; but it landed him at 
last at the Tiburnian mansion of Mrs. 
Rose. 

Was Mrs. Rose at home? — he asked the 
page, politeness demanded that he should 
inquire for the lady of the house. 

Mrs. Rose was out. Indeed ! Was Mi9s 
Raynor in ? Yes, Miss Raynor was in the 
drawing-room. Buttons knew Percy, had 
oft been tipped by him; and made no 
objection when the ardent lover dispensed 
with the ceremony of announcing him and 
ran upstairs alone. But Buttons grinned. 

Up ran Percy two steps at a time. 
Quick as he went, the conservatory he 

ft 

passed brought back a remembrance — a 
flower given, a hand held just a moment 
longer than was necessary, and yet no sign 
of maidenly revolt. Ah, that night! If 
he had had a thousand a year then ! 

He opened wide the drawing-room door. 
On a low causeuse in the dim religious 
light which alone was permitted to enter 
that apartment; he saw the lady of his 
love, clad in rich robes, and by her side, 
with his arm round her waist, sat Sir 
Stephen Willford. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“happy is the wooing that is not 

LONG A-DOING.” 

If the adage which heads this chapter 
be true, Sir Stephen must be congratulated. 
He came, he saw, and was conquered in 
double quick time. The drama was played 
out in a week, and the curtain had fallen 


on the last scene some quarter of an hour, 
when Percy made his untimely entrance 
behind the scenes. The future Lady Will- 
ford rushed upstairs to her aunt (who was 
only conventionally “ not at home ”) and 
prayed her for heaven’s sake go down, or 
there would be murder. “Has he pro- 
posed ? ” asked the widow. 

“Yes, yes; it’s all right,” replied her 
niece, “but Percy came in and saw us, 
and there’ll be an awful row.” 

There was no row— there never is when 
there ought to be. 

Sir Stephen had jumped up with a 

“who the devil ?” was chilled by the 

other’s haughty bow, and subsided. The 
Deus ex Machina , or rather the Dea (who 
fluttered down imperfectly attired, with 
only one side of her face powdered, and no 
back hair on) found Percy hat in hand, 
drumming on the front window panes, 
looking very pale, and breathing much too 
quickly. 

“Oh, Sir Stephen! Oh, Percy,” she 
stammered, “ don’t you know each other? 
Or have you quarrelled. Oh, really ” 

Then of course it came out who was who 
— to the mutual suprise of both — for, re- 
member, they had never met before. 

“ Why Percy ! ” cried the baronet, 
coming forward and offering his hand; 
but Percy drew back and said : “ Two 
questions if you please. Are you engaged 
to the lady who has just left the room ? ” 

“Yes he is,” replied Mrs. Rose — 
“ there ! ” 

“ I would prefer his answering for him- 
self, madam, if you have no objection.” 

“ Why don’t you answer for yourself, 
Sir Stephen?” demanded the widow in 
an agony. 

“ Well, of course I am,” was the petulant 
reply. 

“ Are you aware who was the subject of 
some part of a letter I wrote to you at 
New York?” 

“No; and I’m not now.” 

Percy gave a sigh of relief. 

“ It is proper I should tell you, having 
gone thus far, that the lady mentioned in 
that letter was, and is, perfectly ignorant 
of the ho — of the possibility I mentioned.” 

“ Well, my dear fellow, that’s your affair 


A FAMILY TREE. 


163 


not mine,” replied Sir Stephen. " I hope 
you will prosper as well as I have. Why 
don’t you wish me joy?” 

“ I wish you all the joy you can possibly 
expect.” 

“ And I too,” burst in the widow. “ Ah, 
what a loss she will be to me ! How shall 
I get on without my sweet girl? But I 
must not be selfish — I really must not. I 
give her to you, Sir Stephen. Pardon my 
emotion; this is too much for my poor 
nerves. I must run for some sal volatile.” 

And she ran. She had glanced at a 
mirror to see if she was doing the emotion 
business well, and caught a glimpse of her 
half-powdered face. That was why she 
ran. Sir Stephen gallantly attended her 
through the back room; and when he re- 
turned, found that his cousin had gone. 

The atmosphere, full of a scent which 
he associated with Bessie, choked poor 
Percy. The stun of the blow he had re- 
ceived was on him still. He almost fled 
the house and the street, and had half 
crossed the park before he knew where he 
was or what he was going to do. Not 
return to Wharnstead ; that would lead to 
questioning. He would spend the time 
with his mother, and go back to George 
D’Esmonde and the rest, as though nothing 
had happened. 

He told her his grief, and fairly broke 
down when she drew his drooped head 
upon her breast, and caressed his throbbing 
brows with her cool, soft hand, as in the 
dear old days when he was a boy, and her 
own. 

Awfully bad form this, isn’t it? Sneer 
at it, golden youth ! scoff at it !. I’m ready. 

“ Fellow gets jilted, runs off to his mater, 
and blubs on her shoulder ! ’Fernal trash ! 
Haw! haw!” Make it e-haw! e-haw! 
gentlemen, and the criticism is perfect. 
You know as much about this sort of thing 
as a toad does of side pockets. You don’t 
understand how all that is stubborn and 
hard in the bravest and the best of us, 
may melt away under the magic touch of 
a mother’s pitying caress, and do our man- 
hood credit. So I think I’ll let the ’fernal 
trash stand. 

Very little else was said between mother 
and son about Bessie when the story of 


her falsehood was once told. She took 
him to her painting-room, and showed 
him her new picture, and, to divert his 
mind, brought up again the subject of the 
mysterious key. No; she had received no 
answer from Count Tasti. Perhaps he 
had left Turin. Was this the season for 
living at Turin ? And so on. 

***** 

Percy took Dr. Raynor’s house on his 
way from the station, as promised, to tell 
the result of his journey; but the post an- 
ticipated him. It brought a very pretty 
letter from Bessie, and a very dutiful one 
from Sir Stephen, reporting the arrange- 
ment they had made between themselves, 
and requesting parental confirmation 
thereof. 

“Never you mind, my boy,” said the 
bluff doctor; “she’s got what she wants, 
what you couldn’t give her, and more than 
she deserves. She never cared a pin’s 
head for you.” 

Sharp surgery this, but kind. You could 
not expect a father to say of his child, 
“ The girl is a heartless flirt, and you are 
well rid* of her.” But that was the verdict 
in his mind. 

Miss Bessie knew no just cause or im- 
pediment why she should not be married 
off-hand, and taken to “ my lady ” it over 
King’s Morton. She therefore wrote to 
her dearest friends (and choicest enemies), 
announcing her grand engagement; and 
this raised a good deal of talk about some 
previous “ affairs,” particularly that with 
the curate; and although Percy turned a 
deaf ear to it, like an honorable man, some 
of the shafts hit, and had a curative effect 
upon his other wound, upon the counter- 
irritant principle. 

Of course the news reached John Den- 
nis, and put up his back. 

“ So, sir,” he said to Judge Alexander, 
“ I understand that your friend Sir Stephen 
Willford is in London ? ” 

“ I believe so,” was the careless reply. 

The judge had written him an awful 
letter, rating him up hill and down dale 
for his “ cursed folly,” that very morning. 

“ Ha ! ” growled the squire. “ Well, I’ve 
not quite made up my mind about London ; 
but he’d better not come here. If he does” 


164 


A FAMILY TREE, 


(speaking more quickly, and with rising 
warmth), “ I’ll take care no one shall visit 
him.” 

“ Really, Mr. Dennis ! under the circum- 
stances ” expostulated the judge. 

“ A man in his circumstances has no 
right to marry. I’m sorry for the girl.” 

“ I suppose you allude to that foolish 
card affair? ” 

“ To that disgraceful card affair, sir.” 

“ Six years ago ! ” 

“ In this country, Mr. Alexander, cheat- 
ing at cards is a thing which gentlemen 
never forget — not so much on account of 
the act itself, as of what it implies.” 

“ I am glad this subject has turned up,” 
said the judge after a pause. “ I should 
much like to discuss it with you, if you 
have no objection. Willford has told me 
his version, and I have taken some trouble 
to verify it. I don’t see where the cheat- 
ing comes in, Mr. Dennis.” 

“ He confessed it.” 

“Oh, no! Nothing of the sort. Bad- 
gered, driven into a corner, with his own 
father taking part against him, he was 
foolish enough to beg that U should be 
allowed to pass over. No more. Why, 
my dear sir, the poor boy had no show at 
all! You, who took his guilt for grant- 
ed, and his father, who did the same, set- 
tled it between you.” 

“ It was a perfectly clear case.” 

“ Excuse me, if I differ with you,” said 
the judge, with his new smile. “ Allow 
me briefly to state the facts upon which 
you relied. May I ? Ah ! I see you don’t 
object. Well, in the middle of a game of 
J loo,’ in which six players were engaged, 
young Willford rises to get something.” 

“ A glass of water.” 

“ For the present I prefer to say * some- 
thing.’ You will see my motive presently. 
He goes to a table where a discarded pack, 
which had been thrown about the room — 
mark this! — was placed, uncounted, and 
just as they had been picked up off the 
floor. Now what passed at this moment 
is all important, and until I took the case 
in hand, has not been investigated. You 
all skipped it, and centred your attention 
on what you guessed to be its result. In 
short, you put the cart before the horse. 


You made your facts fit your theory, instead 
of your theory to fit your facts. Young 
Willford rises, I say, to get something . 
How do you know it was water? Because 
Mr. Plowden sneered at him for not drink- 
ing champagne, when he could get it. 
Consequently Mr. Plowden was looking at 
him. As the table was placed, only two of 
the five players who remained at it had 
their backs to it. Three of them could see 
him. How many of them did ? There was 
no play going on, remember; they were 
waiting for Willford’s return. Plowden 
saw him pour out the water; your son saw 
him drink it, for he remarked in joke, 
* What a good thing it is to be thirsty.’ 
Mr. Tomlyn then said, ‘ Never mind, put 
it on the sideboard.’ What did this mean ? 
The table where the water stood was very 
small and crowded. Willford had some 
trouble to put the glass back in its place. 
His host saw this, hence his ‘ never mind.’ 
‘ It ’ was the glass. Willford did as he 
was told, placed it on the sideboard, and 
thence returned to the game. He was seen 
to fill his glass; he was seen to drink its 
contents; he was seen to put it down on 
the other side of the room. Now I appeal 
to you, as a reasonable man, to say what 
opportunity had he, thus observed, to 
secrete a card? Above all, what oppor- 
tunity had he to pick out an ace? ” 

“ It was picked out — there’s no getting 
over that,” replied John Dennis. 

“ I think there is,” said the judge. “Let 
us go the mainspring — the matter. What 
was that? ” 

“To cheat.” 

“ Granted, for the sake of argument. 
Mr. Willford had secreted an ace for the 
purpose of cheating. What was he to do 
with it ? ” 

“ What he did, of course,” was the indig- 
nant reply. 

“ Which brought about instant discov- 
ery! My good sir, people who cheat at 
cards by sleight of hand, don’t run such 
risks. An ace, unless it is trumps, is of 
little value at ‘ loo,’ and particularly when 
the ‘ drawing’ game is played.” 

“ It was tramps, as it turned out,” Den- 
nis persisted. 

“Yes, we will suppose that it was se- 


A FAMILY TREE. 


165 


creted at hap-hazard, and kept till it would 
be useful.” 

“ A very likely supposition.” 

“ Oh, I am taking everything against 
Willford, for the sake of argument,” said 
his defender, frankly. “ I am making my 
giants for the sole purpose of killing them, 
and effectually disposing of their dead 
bodies. He had the ace of diamonds up 
his sleeve. The cards are dealt— eighteen, 
and the trump, nineteen. If three players 
stand, and draw two each, twenty-five are 
out — two less than half the pack — two 
points less than even chances that the 
other ace be out. Do sharpers act on such 
odds? No, sir.” 

“ Any how, your friend had the reputa- 
tion of always winning,” said Dennis, who 
felt the ground giving way under him, but 
was not yet prepared to abandon his posi- 
tion. 

“ By careful and steady play,” Alexander 
retorted, “ he played to win — there is no 
doubt about that — and this brings us back 
to motive . Why cheat, if he could win in 
the long run ? His was the only cool head 
at that table. All the others were excited 
by high spirits and champagne. It was 
nothing to him that Mr. Christopher 
Tomlyn had become a barrister, and he had 
taken none of his wine. But we are for- 
getting the other suspicious card — the one 
found under the table.” 

“ Under Mr. Willford’s foot, you mean.” 

“Exactly. Suppose it had been found 
under some one else’s foot — your son’s, for 
example— what then ? ” 

“ My son’s character, sir,” cried John 
Dennis, flushing crimson, “ is above dis- 
pute. I scorn to reply to such a question 
applied to him. He does not play cards to 
win. There are no suspicious circum- 
stances connected with his conduct, there 
or elsewhere, thank God ! ” 

“ I have not a word to say against Cap- 
tain Dennis, and as I have already disposed 
of the so-called suspicious circumstances 
which were connected with Mr. Willford, I 
have a perfect right — as, upon reflection, I 
think you will admit — to value the fact of 
the finding of that card, by putting it as I 
did. But I was wrong to introduce a 
personal matter. Such things inevitably 


heat and divert discussion. Suppose the 
card (which I daresay had been kicked 
about under everybody’s feet) had been 
discovered whilst it was under Mr. Plow- 
den’s — what then?” 

“You argue it very well, Mr. Alexan- 
der,” said Dennis, wiping his brows. “ You 
are a lawyer, and I’m no match for you ; it 
sounds all right, but. d — n it, sir, amongst 
men of honor, there is a sort of instinct 
about these things, and — and — it’s no use 
talking.” 

“ Am I to understand you to use the 

word 4 instinct ’ as applied to all ; no, 

let me say, rather, as applied to natures 
which are denied the power of reason ? ” 
asked Alexander, his slow smile curdling 
into a sneer. “ No,” he added, quickly, see- 
ing that a hot reply was brewing. “You 
merely admit being prejudiced. You have 
formed an opinion conscientiously, and you 
find it difficult to change it. As I said be- 
fore, the boy was allowed no show at all. 
Had I been by his side, or even if his father 
had done him common justice, no scandal 
would have arisen, and no one would have 
been blamed. But now the time has come, 
Mr. Dennis, when a scandal will arise, and 
some one will be blamed, if an injustice 
(unwittingly inflicted, I admit that) be not 
removed.” 

“ Is that a threat? ” 

“A threat! Not in the ordinary accep- 
tation of the word. I do not think that Sir 
Stephen has any intention of calling you 
out, or of bringing an action of slander 
against you; only if you were to do as you 
threatened just now, and revive this old 
scandal, after such a complete refutation as 
I have given it, and just as the young man 
is about to make a happy marriage, I think 
that men of honor, with all their supposed 
instincts against the value of facts, would 
blame you, I do, indeed, Mr. Dennis— es- 
pecially when they remember ” 

“ Well, sir, go on.” 

“ Perhaps I had better not. I was on 
the point of tripping once again over a 
personal matter. I have said quite enough. 
Think it over, Mr. Dennis. Sleep upon 
it.” 

44 Sir Stephen Willford has broken his 
promise, by coming to London,” said John 


166 


A FAMILY TREE. 


Dennis. “ A man who breaks his w r ord 
does not stand well in asking for commis- 
eration.” 

“Oh, dear me! you quite mistake Sir 
Stephen's position,” Alexander replied. 
“ Broken his promise ! there was never 
any promise to break. His father forced 
him into a compact under threat of starva- 
tion : no one is bound to a thing like that. 
He does not ask you to let him come back 
here — he’s coining, anyhow.” 

“ Confound his impudence ! ” 

“ It’s not impudence — say innocence, for 
I don’t think he has the slightest idea 
that you treat that so-called ‘ promise ’ as 
serious.” 

“ Then w 7 hy has he sent you here as 
his advocate ? Answer me that, Mr. Alex- 
ander.” 

“ I am not here as his advocate — on this 
subject, at least. Perhaps I have been 
wrong in volunteering his defence. You 
were going to play into his hands, and I 
have stopped you.” 

“ How so ? I don’t see that,” said Den- 
nis, quickly. 

“ Why, of course. If you persist in your 
version of the affair, he will be compelled 
to fight it out; and by acting as you pro- 
posed at the commencement of this con- 
versation, you would give him the best pos- 
sible means of setting himself right at your 
expense. And bear in mind that the 
burden of the proof would rest on you. 
They don’t admit instincts into the 
Courts of Assize, Mr. Dennis. They pre- 
fer facts.” 

“ You speak as though I alone knew of 
this scandal. If he were to come here, 
there are fifty people who would be re- 
minded of it, and set five hundred talking 
about it in a fortnight.” 

“ That may be ; but what they would 
say would be guided altogether by what 
you might do,” said the judge. 

“ What would you have me do ? Go up 
to London for this man, and bring him 
home in triumph with a band of music ? ” 
asked Dennis, scoffing. 

“ I thought we were speaking seriously. 
If you really expect an answer to your first 
question, I should say * do nothing.’ You 
and the Willfords never were friends. 


Leave him alone, and he will — no, I must 
not make any promises.” 

“•What Sir Stephen may please to do is 
a matter of the profoundest indifference to 
me,” said Dennis, haughtily. “ And as to 
promises — well, I will think over what you 
have said.” 

“ A very wise conclusion, sir.” 

“ I’m sure I ought to be exceedingly 
grateful to you for the interest you take in 
my affairs,” said the squire, a little nettled 
at the other’s tone. 

“A fagon de parlez ,” Alexander replied, 
with a depreciating wave of his bony hand ; 
“ but I am not without hope, Mr. Dennis, 
that the time may come when you will 
know me better, and repeat that phrase 
with all sincerity.” 

“ This is the third sort of half hint you 
have thrown out that there is something 
in your mind about me or my affairs be- 
yond this miserable card case. I am a 
plain man, and like to meet things straight 
in the face,” said John Dennis. 

“ You will find me much of the same 
kidney when the proper occasion comes,” 
replied Alexander, looking him straight 
into the eyes. 

“ Then there is something behind ? ” 

“ Excuse me I did not say so. There 
may be, or there may not. I said that 
tv hen the proper occasion arrives you will 
find me as plain-spoken and straight-for- 
ward as yourself. Good-day, sir. Think 
over what I have said — not as Sir Stephen’s 
law adviser, not even as his friend acting 
with his authority. I did not start the 
subject; but simply as a man of some com- 
mon sense, and perhaps a little selfishness, 
who has had experience of these sort of 
feuds, knows that they are utterly unprof- 
itable, and wishes for peace and quiet in a 
place where he expects to pass a good 
deal of his time.” 

And so the first shot was fired. 

John Dennis went home sure that 
Alexander’s arguments were convincing, 
and hating to be convinced. 

“ Hang the fellow ! ” he growled to him- 
self, making the gravel fly with a great 
whirl of his stick. “ I’ll give him another 
chance. Jack’s all right. Jack wanted him 
to know it long ago. I’ll do it for Jack.” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


So we see that Judge Alexander had 
not been idle during his short stay in 
London. He found out Mr. Steadman, 
and with his assistance unearthed Plow- 
den, the barrister, whose convivial habits 
had, I am sorry to say, brought him to 
grief, and that pitiable condition which 
follows this sort of grief when treated with 
stimulants, utter loss of self-respect. He 
was ready to remember and swear to any- 
thing for a five pound note, and would 
have made a much stronger case for Sir 
Stephen than that eventually relied upon 
if his examiner had been less covetous, 
still, it put him on the right track. It was 
fortunate that Mr. Berresford, the cynic, 
who perhaps knew more about it than all 
the rest, had gone out to India to practice 
his profession there. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

HE MAY COME BACK. 

Haying thus far set matters right (for 
he saw by his manner how Mr. Dennis 
would decide), Judge Alexander went to 
London to rate Sir Stephen some more, 
report progress, discuss future proceedings, 
and impress upon him that he must on no 
account think of getting married until all 
had been made smooth at Wharnstead. 

“ But why on earth should you tell him 
that I am going to claim the Grange? 
That’ll sure to make him hold out,” expos- 
tulated the baronet. 

“ On the contrary, it will help to make 
him give in. Strange as it may appear to 
you, Sir Stephen, we are dealing with an 
honorable man. Leave him to me.” 

Bessie, quick to put this and that toge- 
ther, saw in the judge the cause of the 
postponement of her hopes, and hated him 
bitterly, but was outwardly all smiles. It 
did not surprise him to see on her fair 
wrists the identical bracelets which he had 
made her lover purchase for Mr. Tre- 
mayne’s betrothed. After all, they had 
reached the lady for whom they were in- 
tended (as the gossip of King’s Morton 
informed him), though by a different route 
to that originally contemplated. He kept 
his counsel, however, as there was nothing 


167 

to be gained by telling the truth, and it 
might be useful hereafter. 

He returned to Wharnstead, and set to 
work upon his genealogy, keeping care- 
fully out of Mr. Dennis’s way. It was no 
part of his scheme to let that gentleman 
imagine he was anxious about his decision. 
Dennis was burning to deliver it, for Jack’s 
sake, and because he respected Doctor 
Raynor, and had a fatherly liking for his 
splendid daughter, with all her faults. 

So as the mountain would not go to 
Mahommed, Mahommed went to the 
mountain, and after some beating about 
the bush, broke the ice. 

“ I’ve been thinking over what you said 
the other day about Sir Stephen Willford 
and that card affair, Mr. Alexander,” he 
began. “My son is the most interested 
party ; I only acted for him ; and as he is 
satisfied, why ” 

“ Permit me one moment,” interrupted 
the judge. “ I also have been thinking it 
over, and it strikes me now, that my pro- 
mise to be perfectly straight-forward and 
outspoken with you requires me to add 
something. To my mind, it furnishes one 
other reason why you should act as I 
fancy you are going to do ; but you may 
think differently. I have communicated 
with my friend, and have his permission 
to broach the subject.” 

“ I am ready to hear it,” said Dennis. 

“ You may possibly remember that dur- 
ing our last conversation I said ‘Leave 
him alone, and he ’ — I was going to add, 
will leave you alone. This would not 
have been strictly correct.” 

“ Indeed ! Then let him fight it out his 
own way ! ” said Dennis, firing up. 

“ You mistake. This has no reference 
to the card case, but to something of much 
greater importance. Sir Stephen is ad- 
vised that he has a claim to a portion of 
the estates you hold.” 

“ Oh ! that old folly. I thought I. had 
made his father smart enough on that. 
Advised he has a claim to my land ! By 
you; I suppose?” 

“ Exactly.” 

“So I am to let him come back, and 
bolster up his blackened character, so that 
he may harass me with futile law, or screw 


168 


A FAMILY TREE. 


money out of me to buy him off ! That’s 
the case, is it ? ” 

“No; nor anything like it,” was the 
calm reply. 

“And this,” Dennis went on, getting 
more and more angry, “ is an additional 
reason why I should be considerate, as I 
intended to be, is it? A mighty strange 
reason. I don’t see your usual logic in 
this, Mr. Alexander.” 

“ Let me assist you,” replied the imper- 
turbable judge. “If all the world knew 
and respected our motives, what a happy 
life we should lead ; but they don’t. People 
are apt to make motives. If you persisted 
in keeping Sir Stephen out of England 
under pain of an exposure, he having, as 
he thinks, a claim against your land, there 
would certainly be those who would put 
this and that together, and think that you 
did so because you were afraid of him.” 

“ 1 afraid of that creature ! This is in- 
sulting, sir.” 

“ It is not meant so, I assure you. No 
such idea strikes me. I only suggest that 
it might arise. If I had not mentioned it, 
you would have had a right hereafter to 
turn round upon me and say, ‘ Is this your 
straight-forward dealing? You persuaded 
me to hush up that card scandal, to let 
your friend come home in peace, and you 
concealed from me that his main object in 
returning is to make an attack upon my 
interests!’ You shall not be able to say 
this of me, Mr. Dennis.” 

“ I ask your pardon. I was vexed and 
hasty. Shake hands. There, it’s over. I 
understand you now, and respect you,” 
said John Dennis. “ I wish to goodness 
you were not mixed up with that Willford. 
I like you Americans. You are true and 
hearty. Some of you were very good to 
one of my girls. Can’t we let Willford 
‘ slide,’ as you say, and be friends? ” 

“We can be friends, I hope, without let- 
ting Willford slide,” the judge replied, with 
his new smile. “ I expect to be very use- 
ful to you both, if you will let me.” 

“ What on earth is he after?” Dennis 
asked, snappishly. “ I beat his father ; 
why don’t he see that I can beat him over 
the same course ? ” 

“ It is not quite the same course.” 


“Well, let him communicate with my 
attornies.” 

“ Mr. Dennis, this is not a case for at- 
tornies — at least, I hope not. It is one in 
which those instincts you spoke of the 
other day should rule.” 

“ If I remember right, you ridiculed 
them.” 

“ As relied upon against facts — yes. As 
applied to ascertained facts, I know of no 
better judgment than that which the in- 
stinct of honor affords. If I satisfied you 
that you were withholding from any one 
— friend or foe — what was justly his, would 
you refer me to your solicitors, and drive 
me to twelve dunderheads in a box to tell 
you what you, as a man of honor, should 
do?” 

“Perhaps not. But how are you to 
satisfy me ? That’s the question. Facts 
require to be sifted, law to be ascertained. 
‘ Twelve dunderheads in a box ’ (they need 
not be dunderheads, you know) is part of 
the machinery which society has invented 
for this purpose. It is only on the stage 
that the rightful heir comes out and says, 
‘ I’ve got a strawberry mark on my arm, 
therefore give me up this castle, and marry 
me to the Lady Sophronisba.’ The case 
you put is all very fine in theory, but in 
practice it won’t do.” » 

“ It has made you merry, which is some- 
thing, whilst upon a disagreeable subject,” 
Alexander observed. 

“ ‘ Let those laugh who win,’ says the 
proverb. I’ve won, so I may laugh.” 

“ ‘ He who laughs last, laughs longest,* 
caps you, I think,” said the judge, drily. 
“ But laughing, in this sense, implies tri- 
umph. We want no triumph, no publicity, 
no heart-burning; no men in a box, or 
judge on a bench. As for satisfying you, 
that is to be my business; and I mean to 
do it!” 

“ Do you propose to begin now ? ” 

“ No. I’m not ready yet. I flatter my- 
self that I know more about the English 
law of trusts than any American lawyer; 
but yet have something to learn. Your 
courts of equity are very stringent about 
trusts, Mr. Dennis.” 

“ And justly. So you fancy I hold my 
land on a trust ? ” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


169 


“ I did not say so.” 

“ But you hinted as much.” 

“ I never hint, sir.” 

“ Then why speak of trusts in relation 
to my property ? ” 

“ Excuse me — the subject was Sir Ste- 
phen Willford’s case.” 

“ Oh ! he has a trust, has he ? ” 

“ That question he will answer in due 
time.” 

“In-deed! Well, if there be a trust, 
there must be some deed creating it. 
Trusts are created by deed.” 

“ Some are.” 

“ And if there be a trust, there must be 
some one to benefit by it. What do you 
lawyers call the person for whom a trust is 
created ? ” 

“ The cestui que trust.” 

“ Yes — that’s the name. Now what, in 
the name of heaven! can Sir Stephen 
Willford have to do with any trust which 
can affect me? It’s ridiculous! When 
you have anything serious to urge, give me 
a call, and I will convince you that you 
have hold of a mare’s nest. I like you Mr. 
Alexander, and don’t want you to be 
made a dupe of. As for Willford, let him 
come back and do his worst. I have only 
contempt for him. Let him take care, 
though, or he may find himself where 
another claimant is, picking oakum.” 

“ I shall certainly call upon you when I 
am ready,” was the judge’s grim reply. 

* * * * 

“Strange — very strange ! ” mused John 
Dennis, when he w'as alone. “ They come 
from America. Can it be that Willford is 
only a cat’s paw, and that they have stum- 
bled upon the right track after all these 
years ? ” 

“ There is a trust,” thought Alexander; 
“ but what did he mean by asking what 
Willford could have to do with it? ” 

Why did Alexander thus show his hand ? 
Not from lack of cunning, you may be 
sure. He had fathomed one phase of John 
Dennis’s character, and had found its soft 
side. He was a man who would fight to 
the bitter end if needed, and yet yield 
everything to a friendly assurance that he 
was in the wrong. It would be much 
easier to deal with John Dennis, than 


with his men of law; and, if the worst 
came to the worst, it would be a fine point 
for the plaintiffs opening to assert how he 
deplored those unhappy disputes amongst 
neighbors, and how earnestly he had 
striven to arrive at an amicable settlement 
at any sacrifice short of his honor — yes 
gentlemen! his honor! Besides, there 
was much to be expected from a quick- 
tempered man by judicious pumping; not 
of the vulgar questioning sort, but by 
throwing out hints and insinuations at 
which he was likely to fire up. He had 
fired up already and let out an important 
admission ; “ for,” argued the acute judge, 
“ when a man begins by getting indignant 
at an idea and afterwards tries to cast it 
off by a joke — depend upon it he’s hit. 
There is a trust. “ I wish to goodness you 
were not mixed up with this Willford,” 
continued the muser, quoting Dennis’s 
words. “ I like you Americans, you are 
true and hearty. Suppose I appear to put 
a spoke in Master Stephen’s wheel, and be 
‘ true and hearty ’ for the other side ? 
That might answer. No, he is a gentle- 
man, and would despise me. I must be 
the candid mutual friend.” 

John Dennis fell — apparently a willing 
victim into this plot. The American took 
great interest in his affairs as intelligent 
foreigners may. He was taken over the 
colliery at Hallowfield, clothed in miner’s 
attire with a candle in his cap, and crawled 
through most of the workings which would 
admit his portly person. He was told how 
the pits were drowned and all but aban- 
doned in the time of their present owner’s 
grandfather; and of the immense expense 
of pumping them dry and providing 
against a similar disaster for the future— 
an expense, however, which was returning 
a handsome return. He was shown the 
iron smelting works at Tiffield Brook, 
near Stafford, once owned by Dennis, but 
now worked under a company in which 
he held half the shares. These also owed 
their prosperity to the dogged resolution 
and wise liberality of the squire. By an 
invention of his own whilst quite a young 
man, he ha'd quadrupled their productive- 
ness ; and doubled this again by extension 
of the premises. He also learned by ocular 


170 


A FAMILY TREE. 


proof what draining and chemical manures 
will do for lands which twenty years ago 
had served for nothing but to grow rushes 
and fever, and to feed geese upon. He 
was promised if ever he went to Manches- 
ter, to be shown over the business there 
which was originally established on some 
old family property, to sell the iron moor 
at Tiffield Brook, but was now one of the 
largest machine and tool manufactories in 
that busy city. “ If you want anything in 
our line from a chisel to a steam engine, 1 ” 
said the squire, “pray go to Scott and 
Dennis. I am sorry I haven’t got a card, 
for I’m only a sleeping partner now.” 
And — crowning favor ! — he was introduced 
to the prize pigs, who allowed him to 
scratch their sleek and spotless backs, and 
grunted appreciation of his polite atten- 
tions. He was not unfamiliar with the 
beast that is slaughtered in Maine, and 
packed at Cincinnati; but the British 
prize pig as he appears entire in his sty, 
and afterwards in hot crisp simmering in- 
stalments on the grill of a silver bacon 
dish at breakfast; filled him with admira- 
tion and delight. 

“ I suppose that man,” he moralized, “ is 
not naturally a dirty animal, and if clean- 
liness can do so much for the pigs, why 
don’t you try it on the peasants.” 

“ My dear fellow, we do, but you see the 
pigs get washed whether they like it or no, 
and we cannot do the same thing with the 
peasants. We give them water, but we 
can’t make them use it. We can give 
them windows, but we can’t open them. 
They hate cold water and fresh air, and 
any one who tries to force their use. Edu- 
cation only will remove these prejudices. 
Why fifty years ago, ladies and gentlemen 
were what we should now call abominably 
dirty! Perhaps before the end of this 
century the average mechanic will have 
learned that it is not unwholesome to take 
a bath and change his shirt; and his wife 
will know that a room in which four peo- 
ple have slept, requires ventilation.” 

“You move slowly in these old coun- 
tries.” 

“ And surely. These very prejudices, 
stupid as they are, spring from a feeling 
which is entitled to respect — a dislike by 


the poor of interference in their private 
affairs. A worthy neighbor of mine built 
some excellent cottages for his laborers; 
gave them plenty of water, light, and air, 
and every convenience for securing de- 
cency and health ; but, unwisely, he sad- 
dled the enjoyment of them with a condi- 
tion that the state of their cottages should 
be inspected once a month. Before the 
year was out, they had all gone back to 
their old hovels. They could not swallow 
inspection.” 

This conversation led to inquiries into 
the condition of iron smelters, coal miners, 
and the skilled hands who worked under 
Mr. Scott at Manchester. The rate of 
wages (in these times) suggests the rates 
of profit; and thus, whilst apparently in- 
terested in the employed, Mr. Alexander 
gained information which enabled him to 
make a shrewd guess at the income of the 
employer. 

He found that John Dennis was making 
an income of at least forty thousand a year 
and that his expenditure did not exceed 
twenty. Why was he saving all this 
money ? For his son ? His son would have 
all he had, plus the growing results of the 
sums he had spent on improvements for 
his unmarried daughter. Three years 
accumulations at the present rate, would 
make a fortune for her. For the sake of 
hoarding? Free-handed John Dennis was 
not a man to play the miser. Did he want 
to leave a will which would make a noise 
in the world ; leaving his wealth to build 
hospitals, and endow public parks to be 
called after his name? That also was 
quite out of his character. 

Sometimes — as the weeks passed — the 
squire would jestingly recur to their talk 
about Sir Stephen’s alleged claim, and ask 
if they were ready to turn him out yet; 
but the judge appeared shy of this subject, 
and, as the young baronet lingered still in 
London and made no sign, it almost passed 
from his remembrance. 


CHAPTER XV. 

HARD AT WORK. 

Satan, who, according to Dr. Watts, 
“ findeth mischief still for idle hands to 


A FAMILY TREE. 


171 


do,” not ^infrequently gives out his work 
by deputy. In the instance of Sir Stephen 
Willford, this employment was provided 
by Bessie Raynor and Mr. H. Clay Alex- 
ander in the period at which we have 
arrived. And he had his work to do, 
serving two masters (or rather, a mistress 
and a master, who pulled in different 
directions,) and striving to reconcile the 
claims of business with the pleasanter 
duties which devolve upon an engaged 
man. The lady of his love kept him pretty 
close to her side, principally for advertising 
purposes; and about every other post 
brought him some such orders as the fol- 
lowing from his master : — 

“Search in the State Papers Office, or 
at the British Museum , for reports of the 
trial of Lords Lovat , Balmerino , and 
others , for high treason in 1746; see if 
the name of Denys, or Dennis, is mentioned. 
If so, send me full extracts.” 

“ Go to 19, Salem Bow, Islington ; ask 
for Mrs. Matthews (n€e McGee,) whose 
husband is a plasterer. Find out if her 
mother be alive, and get her address. She 
was a sick nurse.” 

“ Look about at second-hand book-stores 
for ‘ Crosbie’s Staffordshire Worthies ’ 
(1798;) it is out of print.” 

“Go to the Bank of England, and ascer- 
tain what sum in Consols stands in the 
name of John Dennis, and what part of it 
was bought in the years 1852-3-4, and in 
1865 to the present time.” 

“ Procure copies of all Acts of Par- 
liament relating to the enfranchisement 
of copyholds , and send them by book 
post.” 

“Find out why Gilbert Dennis (1801) 
did not serve as High Sheriff of Stafford- 
shire. He refused to take the oath. Why ? 
Was he the same Gilbert who went into the 
Church and was afterwards a Canon of 
Lichfield f Search at the Crown Office 
in the Temple , and look up old clergy 
lists.” 


“ Who is that your father mentions in 
his diary as 'Jeremy,' and ‘ poor Jeremy 1 ?” 

This is, perhaps, enough to show that 
Alexander was at work at Wharnstead, 
and that Miss Bessie had to dispense with 
a good deal of attention from her lover. 

So hard at work was Alexander, that his 
entertainer seldom saw him, except at meal 
times. He went away occasionally for sev- 
eral days, and once was absent for a week ; 
when he came back, his “ Gladstone bag ” 
was labelled Manchester. 

Long before this, George D’Esmonde 
had brought his sister to the Grange, 
where Percy became a constant and wel- 
come visitor. Why not? The only reason 
which had hitherto made him hold aloof 
was removed. Mr. Dennis had let Sir 
Stephen understand that by-gones were to 
be by-gones. No one could say that he 
(Percy) was taking sides now. He had 
got accustomed to a lonely life in the old 
baronet’s time, and since ; but the visit to 
his mother, the companionship of George, 
and the unostentatious and thorough-bred 
hospitality of the Grange, woke him up — 
so to speak ; and you must remember that 
love’s young dream had illumined his 
corner of the gloomy old house in the days 
that were passed, and peopled it with 
bright and hopeful creations. It was 
pleasant to sit alone over his fire, and 
think of Bessie in those days, never to 
come again. To forget her was now the 
wise and the proper thing to do. And this 
could be best done in company. 

. He called at the Grange the day after 
Fanny D’Esmonde’s arrival, and met her 
in the avenue, returning from a stroll to 
the village, with Miss Dennis and George. 

George was very glad to see him. A 
gentleman who is escorting two ladies is 
not unfrequently gratified by the advent 
of a second mate of his species. 

Fanny held out both her hands, and 
opened her face to him, like a fearless maid 
of Dixie, who feels a welcome and is not 
ashamed to show it. 

“ How did she like the Grange ? ” 

“ Like ” was no word to use. “ Do try 
and imagine,” she said, “ that you have 
passed your life in a place where all the 


172 


A FAMILY TREE. 


houses are built square, and all the furni- | 
ture stamped out (apparently) by the same 
machine, and all the carpets designed as 
though the upholsterers were in league 
with the oculists; where knick-knacks 
are unknown, and bric-a-brac has not 
entered ; where every thing is new, and 
you know <>xactly where to go and buy its 
like— and then find yourself transported 
into yonder beautiful, bewildering, lovable, 
awful old house, and be asked how you 
like it ! ” 

“ Why ‘ awful ? ’ ” asked Percy, not no- 
ticing the covert reproach. 

“ Because of its memories. You said 
there was no ghost. The air is full of 
ghosts ! ” 

“ I hope they don’t keep you awake at 
night?” 

“No; but they send me dreaming by 
day. Three hundred years ! Only think 
what changes, what events have passed 
round those dear old walls — what footsteps 
have passed that threshold! Of course 
the house was occupied by Cromwell, or 
some of his crop-eared set (I can’t bear the 
Roundheads, they were so like Yankees;) 
and perhaps Prince Rupert surprised them, 
and there w r as a fight where we stand. 
But why stop at the Stuarts ? Three hun- 
dred years takes us back to Tudor times, 
or my dates are wrong. Queen Elizabeth 
might have stopped here on one of her 
progresses. She may have mounted her 
horse by those very steps, with Raleigh 
(poor, ill-treated Raleigh!) at her bridle, 
and the Dennis of the day presenting the 
stirrup-cup ! I can almost see it with my 
eyes open, and hear the clink of the 
swords as the gallants hurried out when 
the trumpets sounded * boot and saddle.’ 
Leicester may have leaned against that 
tree, and thought of Amy Robsart. Oh, 
if it were only like Tennyson’s talking 
oak, and could tell tales ! Bacon may have 
sat on that seat, and — good gracious!” 
she cried, letting enthusiasm melt away 
into fun, “ the ghost of Lord Raleigh may 
revisit the spot, and be shaking his head 
at me for talking such nonsense ! ” 

“ It is the pleasantest nonsense I have 
heard for a long time,” Percy said, under 
his voice. I 


j Was there a spell in her eager, flushed 
face, with its bright, honest eyes, to make 
him feel just a little faint and sleepy, and 
to wish that the voice would go on for 
ever, so that he were there to listen? 

What a change from Bessie’s fast talk! 
Bessie’s ideas of Queen Elizabeth and her 
times would have been based upon a bur- 
lesque at the “ Strand.” 

They are progressing at the rate of 
about a mile in three hours— Percy flicking 
at loose stones in the path with the loop 
of his hunting crop, and his companion 
lost (perhaps) in one of her day dreams — 
but as the distance to be travelled was 
under sixty yards, they did get in at last; 
and found John Dennis in the hall, just 
returned from his usual mid-day visit to 
those interesting prize pigs. 

“ Whenever I come in,” said Fanny, after 
a vigorous assault upon the mat, which 
Percy watched with interest, “ I find some- 
thing new— no, that won’t do at all; I 
mean some dear old thing that I have not 
seen before, to wonder at — ” 

“ Then,” replied the Squire, shaking his 
finger at her, “ we must lock you up in- 
side, or the Grange will lose its character.” 

“ Prisoners are inquisitive. Who knows 
what I might discover if you kept your 
threat,” Fanny replied. 

“ The family skeleton perhaps.” 

“ I don’t think you have one, Mr. Den- 
nis. You are all too nice and happy for 
that.” 

“ Thank you, Miss D’Esmonde.’ 

He was making* for his “den,” as he 
called it, a small room which opened from 
the hall, when she joined him with two 
skips and a slide. “ I’ve never been in 
there, have I ? Mayn’t I see ? ” 

“ Certainly, but— well, come in,” said the 
Squire. 

There was nothing extraordinary about 
the “ den ” except its wainscoting, which, 
like the rest of the old part of the house, 
was of black carved oak. A study table, 
some models of agricultural instruments, 
fishing tackle, a few iron boxes such as 
lawyers use for their clients’ papers, two 
or three half-burnt briar-wood pipes on 
the mantel-piece — but no ornaments, no 
I wonder as yet. Nothing to interest a 


A FAMILY TREE. 


173 


young lady. But as it was in the days of 
Abomelique, so it is in the reign of Vic- 
toria. Young ladies are inquisitive. There 
were indiscreet explorers before Fatima, I 
have no doubt, and the mildest approach 
to a Blue Chamber is a happy hunting 
ground for these modern sisters. Take 
them to the Temple Church and to lun- 
cheon at your chambers afterwards, and 
notice the avidity with which the dear 
creatures will plunge into the most com- 
mon-place recesses of your domain ! 

Fanny walked demurely into the den, 
and looked around. “ Dear me, Mr. Den- 
nis,” she said, “ what can you possibly 
want with a sewing machine? ” 

“ A sewing machine! ” he repeated, giv- 
ing a quick look round as though one of 
those useful implements might have ram- 
bled into his domain during his absence. 

“ Yes. Isn’t that a sewing machine ? ” 

That was a heavy square table covered, 
all but about four inches of its surface, by 
an oblong box about three feet high. It 
was certainly very like an exaggerated 
Wheeler and Wilson ; particularly as 
shadow hid the lower part where the 
treadles might have been. 

Mr. Dennis shook his head. It was not 
a sewing machine. 

“Then what is it?” Fanny demanded. 
Instinct told her there was a wonder here. 

“Something which I do not show to 
everybody.” 

“But I’m not everybody.” He looked 
for a moment into the frank young face, 
and replied gravely: 

“ No, my dear ; you are not. I will show 
it to you.” 

He opened a drawer in his writing table, 
took out a key, unlocked the fastening of 
the cover, and lifted it. 

“Oh, Mr. Dennis, how curious! how 
beautiful!! how wonderful !!!” she ex- 
claimed, her admiration rising chromati- 
cally as the object uncovered met her view. 
“What is it? What can it be for? Oh! 
look at those little demons scurrying out 
of the window, and the big demon laying 
in wait for them with his club on the roof ! 
Was anything ever so perfect ! And those 
gnomes! — they are gnomes, are they not? 
peering from under the foundations — how 


quaint! It must be immensely valuable.” 

“The materials are gold, silver, and 
iron.” 

“ Please don’t talk of materials; I was 
thinking of the art. Look at the grace 
and softness of that climbing rose, and the 
beauty of the angel’s face ! It cannot be 
Chinese? ” 

“ No. It is English.” 

“And old?” 

“ Very old.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Dennis, would it be asking 
too much if ” 

“ If what?” 

“Will it open?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ To— to ask if I might see the inside ? ” 

“ It is not in my power to show you the 
inside, Miss D'Esmonde.” 

“Oh, now I’m afraid I have offended 
you. I’m so sorry.” 

“ You have not offended me,” he replied 
kindly. “ I have never seen it open my- 
self.” It was on the tip of her tongue to 
ask “ Why do you hide it here ? ” but she 
checked herself in time, and stood almost 
spell-bound before the wonder. 

It was a sort of Morresque Temple, or 
Palace, upon which a crowd of angels, de- 
mons, dwarfs, and creatures half human, 
half animal, swarmed as bees upon a hive 
— pouring in and out of the windows, 
climbing over the roof, attacking and de- 
fending the doors. 

“ I suppose it has been a long time in 
your family,” she said at last, with a sigh, 
such as one who feels art may heave when 
contemplation of the beautiful object must 
be broken off. 

“A long time,” he answered; catching 
the infection, it may be, and sighing too. 

“ How proud you must be of it? ” 

“ The day I should lose it would be the 
happiest of my life,” he replied. 

“ It has something to do with that in- 
scription in the dining-room,” she cried, 
turning sharp round upon him. The next 
instant she could have bitten off her 
tongue for saying so, but the words started 
out in spite of her. 

“ What makes you think that?” 

“ I — I didn’t think it. It came without 
thinking. It just flashed on me, and I 


174 


A FAMILY TREE. 


was foolish enough to say it. You must 
think me very rude,” she added, half cry- 
ing with vexation. 

“ I will forgive you if you tell me what 
made it flash upon you,” he said, grave- 
ly. “ Such ideas do not spring from noth- 
ing.” 

“ I suppose it was the look on your face 
and the sound of your voice. There was 
something so true in your being happy to 
give that — that casquet up, and this made 
me think of the line, * Let Dennis to Des- 
mond be true,’ that was all.” 

“ Upon your word ? ” 

“ Really, upon my word. Now you are 
angry.” 

“ On the contrary, you have pleased me 
very much.” 

“ Why here she is,” cried a voice at the 
door, “ flirting with papa and — Oh ! look 
here, Grace, do look here! He has actu- 
ally shown her the casquet; madame,” 
continued Mrs. Bowring, with a low 
courtesy, “ allow me to do you homage.” 
Here she threw her arms round the aston- 
ished girl’s waist, kissed her, and said 
“ you are in high favor, dear. He has only 
uncovered it for us about twice since we 
were children, and no visitor has ever been 
allowed to see it. I don’t know why — I 
am sure. It would look splendid in the 
drawing-room, but so it is.” 

John Dennis replaced the cover, locked 
it, and answered not a word. 

In the hall they found Judge Alexander, 
who had played the “ candid mutual 
friend ” so well, as to be reproached for 
having made himself such a stranger lately. 
He was duly presented to MissD’Esmonde, 
and naturally enough the question how it 
was that they had not met at home — i.e., 
in New Orleans — turned up. 

“ New Orleans,” he said, “ is a very 
peculiar city, bar China, and I imagine 
that it is the most conservative city in the 
world. It is full of little circles, each one 
considering itself the centre of its plane- 
tary system. If Mr. D’Esmonde had lived 
in Jupiter, and I in Syrius, we should not 
have been separated more than we were; 
first, by two miles of space, and secondly 
by thirty years of age.” 

“ Miss D'Esmonde gave my daughter a 


charming idea of Jupiter, at any rate,” 
said John Dennis. 

“ Yes, she could do so,” Alexander re- 
plied. “ She could show her the surface 
of what may easily be mistaken for a solid 
structure. It is made of as sterling stuff*, 
and takes as high a polish as anything of 
the sort in Europe ; but it is only veneer- 
ing, and, like most veneering, very thin. 
Under it — and pretty thick, to carry out 
my simile — you find some rough, but reli- 
able material.” 

“And underneath that?” asked the 
squire. 

“ Whiskey and politics.” 

“I will not allow you to run down 
New Orleans, Mr. Alexander,” said Mrs. 
Bowring, with prettily assumed indigna- 
tion. 

“Madam, those who (to use a Yankee 
expression) have cracked up my native 
city, until half its inhabitants became 
blind with conceit, and helpless with 
egotism, are less its friends than such as I, 
who, as you hint , i run it down.’ We have 
many things which ought to be run down, 
and hunted out, and killed, things which 
you did not see at Germans, or meet of a 
Saturday afternoon on Canal street.” 

•* Are you a Southerner, Judge?” asked 
his host. 

“ I was born and bred in the South, sir, 
and I love it — I love it too well to be blind 
to its faults. We are a warm-hearted, 
hot-headed race, Mr. Dennis, w r e never 
forget a friend, or forgive an enemy. We 
can be prudent, logical, statesman-like 
upon occasion, but introduce one spark of 
passion, and away goes everything in a 
blaze! I was a Union man.” 

“ I thought so,” said George D’Esmonde, 
under his breath. 

“ Yes, sir, a Union man before the war. 
I was one of those who believed in the 
brain-power of the race from which I 
spring-^-the brain-power which made the 
Union, and for half a century controlled 
it. I was one of those who opposed the 
brutal, vulgar arbitrament of the sword. 
I foresaw what the end would be. 7 am a 
Republican; therefore, as I before ob- 
served, I was a Union man.” 

“ Do I understand you to mean that 


A FAMILY TREE. 


war is contrary to Republican principles ?” 
asked John Dennis. 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Not even as a defence against abuses 
and tyranny?” 

“ No.” 

“ And this although your Republic owes 
its being to a successful revolt ? ” 

“ Yes. What creates, may destroy. A 
century ago we fought a Monarchy to 
make a Republic — that was right — latterly, 
we fought a Republic to change a Repub- 
lic — that was wrong. Republics are 
changed by ballots, not by bullets.” 

“ Look at South America.” 

“Aye! look at South America, and 
tremble at the thought of what might have 
befallen the grandest nation on God’s 
green earth, if your folly had succeeded in 
driving home the first wedge ! The smoke 
still hangs over our battle-fields, and no 
wholesome breeze has yet arisen to blow 
it away. The dead are unburied, and the 
wounded unhealed ; but the time will come 
when every good Southerner will rejoice 
that it ended as it did, and every good 
Northern man lament that his people were 
not more moderate in their victory. This 
generation must pass away first. It can- 
not, or will not, think. That is what is 
the matter with it. It raves, and swag- 
gers, and plots, but it won’t think. Good 
heavens ! for us to fight — we, who could 
not even make ourselves a gun — to fight! 
It was worse than treason — it was stu- 
pidity. This, I am afraid, Mrs. Bowring, 
will take as more ‘ running down.’” 

“Oh, I don’t pretend to understand 
your politics,” replied the lady addressed, 
“ I was talking of your — your ” 

“ Veneering ? Exactly. Now I am as 
proud as any one can be of our polish, 
only I want it to go a good deal deeper, to 
spread a good deal wider; I want it to 
produce something beyond an ear for 
music and a taste in dress. You are not 
to judge of the civilization of a place by 
the clothes and manners of its belles and 
its dandies, the class of music produced at 
its opera, or other such outward shows. 
Go to the prisons, the hospitals, the asy- 
lums, and seek it there.” 

“ Won’t you add, in our case, the charit- 


175 

able institutions?” asked George D’Es- 
monde. 

“ No,” Alexander replied, with decision. 
“ No test of true civilization is to be found 
where sectarianism and bigotry prevail. 
On the contrary. Mark me, Mr. D’Es- 
monde, I shall not see the day, but perhaps 
you will, when a struggle against priest- 
craft — which, in comparison to what is 
now going on in Germany, will be as a 
tornado to the whisk of a lady’s fan — will 
sweep over the country.” 

“ Don’t let us drift into a religious dis- 
cussion,” sensible John Dennis suggested. 

“ No fear, sir,” said Alexander. “ When 
I speak of priestcraft, I am not thinking 
of religion. Priestcraft, be it Roman 
Catholic, Protestant, Methodist, Moham- 
medan, Budhist, Mormon, what you will, 
speaks the same language for the same 
demand — ‘ Give me up your reason and 
your vote, or I will damn your soul.’” 

“ Many of our charitable institutions,” 
persisted Fanny, not to be daunted by the 
full-flavored word which made the judge’s 
last sentence explode like a cracker, “ are 
not sectarian, and consequently there can 
be no bigotry.” 

“ My dear young lady, you are told so, 
and you are sincere in believing what you 
hear. You see — let us drop words which 
might offend, and say — you see a few Bud- 
hist children being educated in an institu- 
tion supported by the votaries of Mumbo 
Jumbo. You are told that no attempt is 
made to influence their religious belief, 
and you go away, saying, ‘ Dear me, how 
liberal these Mumbo Jumbo people are.’ 
Don’t you know that the whole place reeks 
of Mumbo Jumbo? that the minority eat 
him and drink him and breathe him, and 
have him soaked right through and through 
them, without a word said or act done? 
It is as though some one were to say, ‘ Oh, 
this pond of mine is kept perfectly dry ; 
you can put a child up to his neck in the 
water, and no attempt whatever will be 
made to wet him.’ That’s what you hear. 
Is it common sense?” 

“That’s a good idea of yours about 
words,” said John Dennis, “ and should 
be universally adopted. What a deal of 
anger, hatred, and malice would be avoided 


176 


A FAMILY TREE. 


if polemics would use algebraical signs, 
call predestination, a, the pope, b, the 
secular power, c, science, d, works, e, 
faith, /, and so on.” 

With x, the sign of an unknown quan- 
tity, for charity,” Alexander summed up. 

“ That’s severe, judge.” 

“ Severity, sir, under certain circum- 
stances, is only another name for kindness. 
My endeavor to check injudicious praise 
of my native city, is conceived in kindness. 
We are an idle, an affectionate, and an 
easily contented people. We like to be 
liked, but it isn’t good for us. We want 
to be shaken out of our idle ways, to be 
convinced that a few things worth having, 
or doing, which were not ‘ before the war,’ 
are to be had, and done now ; to under- 
stand that if we stand still whilst all the 
rest of the country is moving, we shall 
either be run over, or left out of the race.” 

“ Don’t you think, papa, dear,” suggested 
Grace, when the judge had taken his de- 
parture, “ that Mr. Alexander is just a 
little oppressive?” 

“ Well— 11— he’s got a pompous way — y, 
but he’s a superior sort of man,” pater- 
familias decided. 

“ 1 agree with Grace,” said Mrs. Bow- 
ring. “ He is oppressive. A sort of di- 
luted Dr. Johnson; but I forgive that for 
the sake of his earnestness. He means 
what he says, and says what he means.” 

“I think so, too,” said John Dennis. 

“ He is a very superior man.” 


CHAPTER XYI. 

THE *TRUST ACCORDING TO MR. 

ALEXANDER. 

The leading counsel in the case, of the 
Diagonal Railway Company v . Dennis, 
was Spencer Saxon, Q.C., who in those 
days led the bar in the Rolls Court, and 
might have sat on its bench, had ambition 
spurred him, and outside fortune proved 
less kind. He had made more than a 
competency in his profession, he was a 
bachelor without a blood relation that he 
cared for, his health was not up to the in- 
cessant strain, mental and physical, which 
a great legal business imposes, and, lastly, 


a grateful, but eccentric client, left him a 
bright little gem of a place near Harrow, 
which invited repose. Now a leader of 
the bar must not repose. He must go on 
at the head of the tide, or else cast anchor. 
Spencer Saxon was not sorry to cast 
anchor in so pleasant a harbor. He kept 
up his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, be- 
longed to two or three quiet clubs, bought 
a picture now and then, played whist, was 
a great pillar of the drama, and never 
sighed for the gold embroidered robes 
which his juniors won. 

John Dennis became his friend, before 
chance made him his client. Jack w*as 
his god-son. Grace was his special pet. 
His Christmas w r as generally spent at the 
Grange, and the house in Eaton Square 
was his second home. Upon such a foot- 
ing, there was nothing strange in this 
telegram. 

“ Breakfast with me to-morrow , and give 
me two hours afterwards. — John Dennis . 

The family had come up to town for the 
season, some w T eek or two. 

“ You remember that affair with the 
Diagonal Railway? ” Dennis began, when 
they had seated themselves for the “ two 
hours.” “ Well, it’s come up again, but 
in a different way.” 

u Indeed. The young man wants to 
throw some good money after bad, I sup- 
pose. It isn’t the Railway ? ” 

“You are right. He has picked up a 
man in America — a very superior, and I 
think honest, man and a relative— who has 
certainly put together an extraordinary 
case against me. I want you to tell me 
what to do.” 

“ My advice is Abernethy’s — ‘ take ad- 
vice,’ ” said Saxon. “ Go to your solici- 
tors.” 

“ This is not a case for solicitors,” Dennis 
replied a little hurt, and unconsciously 
echoing Alexander’s words. “I want a 
friend, such a friend as Willford has, con- 
found him! and I come naturally to you. 
You won’t let any of that trade union 
humbug called ‘professional etiquette* 
stand in the way of doing me an immense 
service, will you, Saxon ? ” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


177 


“ I certainly will not, if the service be 
one I can properly perform.” 

“ It is to see this man — Alexander is his 
name, he was once a judge — and hear Sir 
Stephen Willford’s case.” 

“ You don’t mean to say that he shows 
his cards?” 

“Ido. Your words remind me of the 
beginning of what I have to explain. He 
came to me first of all about that affair of 
young Willford’s with Jack — you remem- 
ber — cheating at ‘ loo,’ — and persuaded me 
that it was not so bad as it looked. I was 
too hard upon the boy, Saxon; I saw it 
directly; but I would not give in at first. 
Then when I went to tell him that his 
friend might come back, he stopped me, 
and said it was fair I should know that a 
claim would be made upon the Grange, 
Hallo\yfield, and King’s Morton prop- 
erties.” 

“ That’s not showing his cards. That’s 
only naming the stakes.” 

“ Wait. Of course I w’ent through the 
usual form — referred him to my solicitors 
and that. He told me Sir Stephen would 
have no law— or that he wouldn’t, which 
seems to be the same thing, for he is the 
mainspring of it — that he would convince 
me I ought to give up those lands. In 
short, he made it an affair of honor, and 
was as frank and open about it as a man 
can be.” 

“ With authority from Sir Stephen?” 

“ I tell you, Saxon, Sir Stephen is his 
puppet. He has more brain in his little 
finger than all the Willfords that ever were 
whelped.” 

“ That may be; still, I don’t like people 
who are frank and open in other folk’s 
accounts without their authority. A good 
deal of pumping is sometimes done that 
way; but go on.” 

“ There was no pumping. He did not 
even once ask what I had to say. He 
simply stated the case upon which they 
would rely.” 

“ And you think him a superior man ? ” 
sighed the Q. C. 

“ If he isn’t, you’ll beat him all the easier 
when you meet.” 

“ Oh ! I am to meet him ? ” 

“ He threw out some hints several weeks 

12 


ago,” said Dennis; “but it was only the 
day before yesterday that he made his full 
statement. I told him we were not fairly 
matched — I ’wasn’t a lawyer — and that I 
must have some one to act for me, just as 
he was acting for Willford. Of course, I 
thought of you. Now, he’s an ex-judge; 
he’s not working this up as a lawyer, but 
as Willford’s relative and friend. There 
can be no possible reason why you 
shouldn’t listen to what he has to say as 
my friend.” 

“ One question. He said he would con- 
vince you. Has he done so ? ” 

“ Look here, Saxon. If a man throws 
down the ace and the king of trumps, you 
admit you’re beaten, because you know 
the value of the cards. In this case I 
don’t pretend to know it. What he says 
is an ace may be nothing, the king maybe 
only a knave in disguise, and I may hold 
the queen. You do know r the cards.” 

“Hum! I should have liked a more 
positive answer. To tell you the truth, 
Dennis, I’m afraid of you. This man has 
got on your weak side. You would strip 
the coat off your back if some one who 
had wormed his way into your confidence 
told you you ought to give it away. Be 
ruled by me ; tell them to file their bill 

and be d d to them, and fight it out, as 

before, in court.” 

“ I w’ould rather not go into court.” 

“ Absurd ! I remember your old suit 
well. There’s no man in England can 
oust you.” 

“ I would much rather not go into court 
against Sir Stephen Willford,” Dennis re- 
peated. “ If what Alexander has shown 
me stands your investigation, I can ” 

Here he checked himself, and bit his 
lips. 

“ What was it he showed you? ” Saxon 
asked. 

“ I would rather you had it direct from 
himself. He is in London. We can meet 
to-morrow.” 

“ I am only to sift his case, then ; not 
defend yours? ” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ He agrees to this ? ” 

“ He does.” 

“Well, of all the — never mind. Be it so 


178 


A FAMILY TREE. 


then, on one condition : Sir Stephen must 
be present, I’ll have no playing fast and 
loose; making out one case now, and an- 
other hereafter, and prating about honor- 
able efforts at compromise.” 

“I will tell him to bring Sir Stephen. 
When and where shall it be? ” 

“At my chambers. Two o’clock will 
suit me.” 

“ I am authorized to make the appoint- 
ment, so that settles it. Two o’clock at 
your chambers, Till then I’ll try and get 
it off my mind. Come and dine with us 
to-day? I want to introduce some nice 
Americans. Let us be jolly whilst we 
may,” said John Dennis. 

This happened the last week of April, 
two months after the day on which he had 
shown the casket to Fanny D’Esmonde. 

It is a wise social law which ordains 
that when people meet to do each other 
deadly mischief they should be more than 
usually polite. Judged by their demean- 
or, the party of four which assembled at 
Mr. Saxon’s chambers might have met to 
present each other with pieces of plate, as 
feeble tributes of mutual respect and re- 
gard. Judge Alexander was especially 
flowery. 

“ Your name, Mr. Saxon,” he said, on 
being introduced, “ is not unknown to me. 
I esteem it a high honor to have the 
privilege of your acquaintance. I recog- 
nize in you — if you will allow me to say so 
— a foeman worthy of my steel. I have in 
my mind your argument in the case of 
Smith v. Huxtable— a most admirable and 
exhaustive exposition of the law; one, sir 
which is incorporated in our best text 
books.” 

“Suppose,” replied the Q. C., quietly 
“that we proceed to business.” 

“ Good,” said Alexander, taking the 
chair at the head of the table, on which 
the Q. C.’s briefs were once spread, and 
motioning Sir Stephen to face him. “ With 
your permission, I will sit here, where I 
shall have plenty of room for my docu- 
ments^’ 

As he spoke he produced, from a courier- 
bag, several papers neatly folded which he 
piled round him in little heaps, which he 


patted and smoothed as though they were 
living pets. He was very particular to 
place them perfectly straight, and at equal 
distances one from the other. 

Saxon and John Dennis took the vacant 
seats on each side, and waited for him to 
open fire. Dennis, you know, had heard 
the story before ; the Q. C. was there to 
listen. 

Whatever amount of rope Mr. H. Clay 
Alexander might demand would be cordi- 
ally conceded. Having arranged his pa- 
pers to his satisfaction, he gave the usual 
preliminary ahem! and began — 

“ I was not without some credit in my 
own country, Mr. Saxon, for a capacity to 
arrange facts, and a certain lucidity in 
stating their relative value and the appli- 
cation they bear to each other. If this be 
not apparent now, it will be because, like 
yourself, I have grown a little rusty. To 
begin, then. What is our motive in meet- 
ing you here ? Speaking for Sir Stephen 
Willford, who is present to sanction and 
confirm every word I say” (the baronet 
bowed), “ I reply that our motive is, in one 
word, Peace. There have been jealousies, 
there have been heart-burnings, there have 
been quarrels between the familiesof Will- 
ford and Dennis. There arises now a ques- 
tion which, if unwisely handled, might stir 
the ashes of old conflicts into flame. It is 
our desire so to handle it, as not only to 
ensure its amicable settlement, but to pave 
the way for a sincere and lasting reconcilia- 
tion. We will not go to law unless we are 
driven. We come, with our hearts upon 
our sleeves, into a court of honor, in 
which we propose to give you the oppor- 
tunity, so prized by honorable men, of 
acknowledging and atoning for a wrong. 
Such is our motive. What is yours? 
To ” 

“ Excuse me,” the Q. C. interrupted. “ I 
think I had better state our motive. It 
is simply that I may be enabled to ad- 
vise Mr. Dennis on the legal value of your 
case.” 

“ Leaving him to judge the moral force 
of such facts as survive your scrutiny. 
That is so. We may now commence in 
earnest. By a deed bearing date the fifth 
day of August, 1615, King James the First 


A FAMILY TREE. 


179 


granted certain freehold lands in Stafford- 
shire, known now as the Grange and Hal- 
lowfield Estates, and forming part of the 
town of King’s Morton, to one Stephen 
Willford, to hold for himself and his heirs 
for ever. His namesake, the present baro- 
net, is his heir. Of that I presume there 
is no doubt. In the year 1626 — I am glad 
to see you taking notes — this Stephen Will- 
ford died, and Charles, his eldest son, in- 
herited those freeholds. I am afraid he 
was not quite right in his mind. He went 
to America (not that that is any evidence 
of insanity,” said the judge, with a smile) ; 
“ but his conduct when there was eccentric, 
to say the least of it. A short time before 
his departure, the first Dennis — or Denys, 
as it was written then — by name Gregory, 
appears upon the scene as his servant .” 

“ That is one of the facts I deny,” whis- 
pered John Dennis across the table.” 

“ Let him speak for himself in his letters, 
which I shall notice in their proper order,” 
the orator replied, with a wave of his hand. 
“ I say he appears on the scene as his ser- 
vant; what he became, he shall also state 
for himself. It was only in 1634 (as shown 
by the late chancery suit) that he assumed 
to possess and control those lands. Now,, 
what has happened between 1626 and 1634 
to give Gregory Dennis (let us say ‘ Den- 
nis’) and his heirs possession of what 
was undisputably the property of Charles 
Willford and his heirs? In the late suit 
you, in effect, said ‘ find out.’ We have 
found out. Nothing happened. Gregory 
Dennis was a mere trustee.” 

Saxon, Q. C., made a movement which 
seemed to say (in a whisper) “ Now for 
it.” 

“ I have here photographic copies of four 
letters written by this Gregory Dennis to 
this Charles Willford. If we were in court 
you would say, ‘ Show how you can prove 
that the one wrote, and the other received 
them, before you refer to their contents. 
I will act now, here, in this private room, 
with the same regularity that Mr. Saxon 
himself would observe, were he before the 
highest court of justice in the land. I can 
show that they were found in a box left by 
Charles W T illford at Baltimore, amongst 
papers undisputably his. I can show that 


Gregory Dennis (originally a working 
smith), prospered so that he became Bor- 
ough Reeve of Manchester, and that 
amongst the archives of the present Cor- 
poration, there exist public notices, orders, 
and other official acts, some entirely writ- 
ten, and others signed by him. I was per- 
mitted to take photographic copies of 
them, and here they are for comparison. 
The character is peculiar. Judge for your- 
self if these letters, and those orders, are 
or are not written by the same hand. 
May I say now,” he added, when Saxon 
had glanced over two of the photographs 
which the orator selected and handed 
him, “ that I have four letters written by 
Gregory Dennis to Charles Willford? ” 

“ For the purposes of the present con- 
versation you may,” replied the cautious 
man of law. 

“The letter which you have before you 
is the least important of the four. I pro- 
duce it mainly to show the relative posi- 
tion of these correspondents. The writer, 
you will observe, acknowledges the receipt 
of certain ‘ commands,’ which it will be his 
‘humble duty’ to perform, and so on — 
much, I take it, as a servant would write. 
This, the next in order, is quite in the same 
tone, only that it seeks approval of what he 
had done, as a servant (according to my 
contention) again. The third, which is 
dated after a lapse of some years (and 
which I take somewhat out of its turn, for 
the purpose, of brevity), is important only 
as bearing upon the pedigree of Sir. Ste- 
phen. It comments upon the news (con- 
veyed, of course, by Charles himself) that 
he had married, and was a father. You 
can peruse these at your leisure. For the 
fourth — for every word of it — I bespeak 
your kindest attention. It is dated the 
2nd day of June, 1630, and its contents 
are as follows ; 

* 

* “ ‘ Most honourable Sir , 

“ ‘ Most welcome was thy letter , the 
wh found me in goode health on Ladye 
daye. What wondrous things thou dost 
relate , what peryls thou hast braved. Of 
a surety , honourable Sir , thou wilt have 
thy reward in ye ende , wh God grante may 

0 Taken from the photographic copy. — P. D. 


180 


A FAMILY TREE. 


notte be farr distante. Thy poor servant 
hathe lyttle to recounte. I have fovnd a 
tenant for ye large house at ye King's 
Morton , one Simon Thorpe , a solyd mann , 
and a God-fearing , the wh is v:ell, as I 
could have butt his worde for ye covenant , 
not being able to make a lease. 1 

(“ I trust that last phrase has not es- 
caped you,” the orator observed, lower- 
ing his glasses, and tapping the paper 
with them, “ not being able to make 

A LEASE.”) 

44 4 Saving for pasturage of beasts , Hal- 
low Field is of noe worthe. Dicke , ye 
forrester , who hath much skylle in suche 
tliyngs , has tolde me thatt the woods do 
stande in need of thynning , for that ye 
greater trees do smother up ye lesser , so 
that theye may not groe stronge, the wyche 
shalle be done , and the timber solde at 
goode profyt. Feare not that ye Grange 
shall be welle cared for, for his dear sake 1 

(“ Here, then,” observed the orator, “ we 
find the three properties— that at King’s 
Morton, Hallowfield, and the Grange — 
mentioned, and an account of what had 
been done, or proposed to be done, upon 
them, rendered. In what capacity ? Mark 
well what follows.”) 

44 4 In fyne and to conclude , be sure that 
all things shall be done to the beste of my 
humble duty , as though thou werst thy own 
selfe here presente. If thine honourable 
desire may be wone , and God grante itt 
maye be , what greate joy will be ours, butt 
if it please Hym not, I and mine will be 
loyal and true to our truste , though a 
hundred years should passe. Loyal and 
faithful, according to the oath we have 
sworn. 1 

44 And this is signed Gregory Denys, 
with the same flourish underneath, and 
the same peculiar formation of the gs and 
ys that we find in these authentic public 
records at Manchester. 

“We rely upon this letter,” said the 
orator, placing it before him on the table, 


and pressing it softly with the palm of his 
hand, “ as containing a declaration of trust, 
or, at the least, containing sufficient evi- 
dence of a pre-existing trust, to put you to 
the proof of your title. In the face of this 
letter we contend that you cannot meet us 
— as in the railway case — by pleading the 
Statute of Limitations. If you say, ‘ We 
have held these lands against the world, as 
owners, since 1634,’ we reply, ‘ Here is an 
acknowledgement, dated 1630, that you 
had merely the care of them as trustees.’ 

4 I need not remind Mr. Saxon of the 
jealousy with which your law regards 
transactions of bargain and sale of the 
subject of a trust, between trustee and 
cestui que trust. Any conveyance of these 
lands by a Willford to a Dennis must have 
been effected with due precautions, and by 
formal instruments. Where are these? 
Produce the deeds, and we will tender our 
apologies for giving you all this trouble, 
and retire.” 

44 Is that your case, Mr. Alexander?” 
asked the Q. C., without replying to an 
appealing look from Dennis. 

44 Oh dear no! To be perfectly candid 
with your friend, as I have been through- 
out, I admit that his counsel (should he 
force us into court), might pick holes in 
this letter” (caressing it again) 44 if it stood 
alone. It does not stand alone, Mr. Sax- 
on ; it gave me the clue to discoveries 
which will astonish you. I have gone 
through the dusty records of these two 
houses, as a miner digs for gold. Fatigue 
has not checked, or failure daunted me. 
My labours have been intense — immense! 
I have piled around me mountains of 
worthless trash ; after having turned over 
every stone, and brought all the energies 
of my mind to bear upon every fragment. 
I have followed veins, full of promise, 
which turned out to be false. The floods 
of disappointment have burst in upon me, 
but I never gave way to despair, and why ? 
For the hope of reward ? No. I made it 
a personal affair with myself. I said, 
4 There is success to be attained, for the 
instincts of your intellect — never at fault 
— tell you so. You must attain it, or be 
false to yourself.’ ” 

44 Perhaps we had better return to busi- 


A FAMILY TREE. 


181 


ness,” said Spencer Saxon, as dryly as 
before. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“a bad day’s work for jack.” 

The orator did not like this dryness on 
the part of Spencer Saxon. It put him 
out of swing. He loved the sound of his 
own voice, and the taste of his own words. 
He loved a good listener who would wince 
as the hits told, or follow’ his discourse 
with some signs of admiration or approval. 
He might as well have talked at the sphinx 
as at Saxon, Q. C., so far as eliciting smiles 
or frowns is concerned. 

Put his manner into words, and its me- 
nacing commentary was something like 
“Pooh, pooh! — do get on with all this fool- 
ishness, and let’s have it over.” Now this 
w r as not pleasant to a man like H. Clay 
Alexander, but he kept his temper, and 
changed not his style. 

“ The history of the Dennis family,” he 
recommenced, “ and of the times in which 
they lived for more than a century after 
the death of Gregory, the whilom smith, 
gives me no fact upon which I care to 
rely. The object of my laborious search— 
the point upon which all my powers of 
argument and deduction were concen- 
trated, was to find in the conduct of this 
family, in its own circle, and from its deal- 
ings with the outer world, some corrobora- 
tion of Gregory’s letter — some admission 
that a trust had been created, and conse- 
quently continued to exist. With Sir 
Stephen’s assistance I discovered the first 
link of the chain. It is to be found in the 
words of the State Trials which followed 
the abortive invasion of England by the 
young Pretender in 1746. I have here 
an extract from a paper found in the pos- 
session of one Silas Mitchell (a creature, 
and agent in rebellion, of Lord Lovat) in 
which he had noted down what money, 
forces, and other assistance was promised 
by the various malcontents in the midland 
counties whom he visited. In short, he 
was a sort of collector sent round for sub- 
scriptions, and this — in the middle of a 
long list — is the result of his application 


to the Dennis of that day. The “ y ” was 
dropped by this time. 

Dennis , Wybert , and 50 men asked for 
money — says he has none , asked to raise 
some on his title deeds — says he has none, 
asked to borrow on mortgage of his estate 
— says he has no estate to mortgage . 

“ All hearsay,” smiled Saxon. 

“All hearsay so far, but when Wybert 
Dennis was arrested and taken before the 
Privy Council, he not only adopted it, but 
based his defence upon it very cleverly. 
The figures ‘50 men,’ he argued, ‘were 
written against my name as a sort’of as- 
sessment before I was visited. What fol- 
lows is a series of excuses, palpably idle. 
The Prince was in force at Derby, and I 
dared not flatly refuse.’ This saved his 
head.” 

“ And kills your case,” Saxon remarked. 

“This,” said the other, leaning back in 
his chair, “ is another instance of our can- 
dor, and one which I hoped had produced 
respect rather than a sneer.” 

“ Pardon me,” said the Q. C., “ you must 
admit, Mr. Alexander, that I have seldom 
interrupted you, though you must be aware 
that not a few of your points challenge 
objection. I will not offend again.” 

“ This Wybert,” continued Alexander, 
“ appears to have been a roystering, reck- 
less sort of person. He had not been a 
week out of jail when he again compro- 
mised himself, this time to his neighbor, 
another Charles Willford, and a Jacobite 
at heart, but one of those who ‘ I dare not 
wait upon if I would,’ — oh! I am not go- 
ing to spare any of you. It was this cau- 
tious Willford who cajoled the more open 
Dennis into the Pretender’s course, and 
amongst the papers he left (why he kept 
it I cannot say; perhaps to have a hold 
over the writer) I find this letter. 

“ ‘ Dear Friend and loving neighbour , — 

“ ‘ You have heard how finely I hood- 
winked those rascal whigs, but ’ twas a nar- 
row escape won by a head. Dost take f 1 
must have been drunk when that fellow 
Mitchell came . In vino veritas. 'Twas 
well for me I stopped where I did ; else 
had it been a fine thing for thee. Send me 
a hundred pounds, for 1 am in much need 


182 


A FAMILY TREE. 


of money ; and bid my steward pay thee 
if he can, or else give thee a note charged 
on the next rents , like the others , and 
oblige , 

" ‘ Ever thine to command , 

“ ‘ W. Dennis? 

“ 1 call your attention to the phrase in 
vino veritas, meaning that he had told 
Mitchell the truth ; and also to those re- 
markable words, it would have been a fine 
thing for thee. 

“I now come to the year 1801, when a 
vastly different Dennis was master of the 
Grange — Gilbert. He was an austere, 
highly religious man, and having been 
pricked, as you call it, as High Sheriff 
of Staffordshire, refused to serve. Why, 
think you? 

“ Because he could not take the oath 
that he was a freeholder of the county! 

“ Proofs thicken as I come to our own 
times,” the orator continued, having left 
his last point to be absorbed for a few 
moments whilst he consulted his notes. 
“ John Dennis, the father of our friend 
here, died quite a young man. He was 
nursed in his last illness by a woman 
named McGee, who also laid out his body 
for the grave. 

114 This woman is now alive, and is living 
at Tewksbury, where I saw her last week 
in the presence of a witness, as I am al- 
ways particular to guard myself against 
the possibility of it being supposed I could 
suggest or dictate answers, I simply asked 
her what passed, and from a great deal 
that is wholly immaterial, I winnowed this 
statement: — That on the morning of the 
funeral John Dennis senior took his last 
look at the face he had loved. McGee was 
in the room. He passed some time in 
prayer by the open coffin, and when he 
rose from his knees he flung up his hands 
with a gesture of despair, and sobbed, ‘ All 
above now ! no one but a child to camp on 
the Trust. Oh, God ! spare me till he is a 
man, and can understand his duty? 

“ So much for the past. Excuse me if I 
recapitulate. We have Gregory writing, 
‘I and mine will be loyal to the trust ;’ 
Wybert confessing that he had no land of 
his own ; Gilbert doing much the same ; 


and John praying to be spared to teach 
this Mr. Dennis his duty as trustee. He 
lived long enough to do so. Now for the 
present. This Mr. Dennis keeps the ac- 
counts relating to the Grange, Hallowfield, 
and King’s Morton estates separate from 
those of his other property. He invests 
the net receipts also separately, and does 
not spend one penny of them. They stand 
in consols in the Bank of England. They 
are added to year after year, by purchase 
of more stock of that very safe but rather 
un remunerative character. He, at any 
rate, has prepared himself to give a strict 
account of his trust. I state this with the 
utmost respect and admiration. When I 
ascertained these facts (again with the as- 
sistance of my young friend), I said to my- 
self, ‘ Whatever other Dennises may have 
been, this one is a man of honor; this is 
not one to skulk into a court of justice in 
the hope of finding some quibble for his 
defence; this is one to be convinced, and 
to do right upon conviction, as surely as 
the day follows the night.” 

John Dennis flushed crimson, and was 
about to reply, when a gesture from Saxon 
checked him. 

“ This,” resumed Alexander, collecting 
his papers, “ is our case. What is the de- 
mand we make upon it? We require the 
restoration of the estates I have named 
as they stand . We make no claim for 
mesne profits, first because we are aware 
that a large portion of them have been 
expended upon legitimate improvements ; 
and, secondly, because we are willing to 
make some sacrifice on our part to obtain 
a speedy and amicable adjustment. As 
Mr. Dennis has acquired a naturally strong 
affection for the house called ‘ the Grange,’ 
we will let it, and the land in its immediate 
vicinity, to him at a rent hereafter to be 
agreed upon. In order that this settle- 
ment may be private, and give no cause 
for scandal we are willing to go through a 
fictitious sale. We will let it appear as 
though Mr. Dennis had sold us his land, 
and will support any excuse (if excuse be 
required) for his doing so. This done, we 
will count ourselves, if he will permit us, 
amongst his sincerest friends and well- 
wishers.” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


183 


“ And if these terms be not accepted?” 
asked Saxon. 

“ Then war to the knife,” the judge re- 
plied, with the utmost sauvity. 

“ Mr. Dennis,” said the Q. C., “ has heard 
your statement before to-day; but I have 
had no opportunity of discussing it with 
him, as he wished me to hear it first from 
yourself. Will you excuse us if we consult 
together for a short time ? I have another 
room at the end of the passage. Pray 
don’t move.” 

“ I trust Mr. Dennis will find it conveni- 
ent to decide to-day, because ” 

Alexander hesitated. He could imply 
more by breaking off than by going on. 

“ Yes?” 

Saxon wanted to hear the “ because ” 
out. 

“ Because, sir, when people act in the 
very exceptional manner in which we have 
acted, they expect frankness for frankness. 
You know your own case. It must lay in 
a nut-shell. Half an hour should suffice 
to decide what is to be your reply to ours. 
We will give you half an hour.” 

***** 

Saxon had hardly closed the door of that 
“ other room” (which had been the sanc- 
tum of his head clerk in his busy days), 
when Dennis confronted him with a 
hoarse, “ Well?’ 1 

“I think,” Saxon replied, “that your 
superior man is either a most consummate 
rascal, or — yes; for the present it. will be 
best to consider him a rascal.” 

“ Let him alone. What of the case he 
makes out ? ” 

“ It may cause you a great deal of trouble 
and annoyance; but of course there is 
nothing serious in it.” 

“You think so?” cried the other, 
eagerly. 

“ Why, how can there be ? What is the 
matter with you to-day, Dennis? You 
look as though you had seen a ghost. Sit 
down there, and let us talk it over quietly. 
To begin with. Do you keep separate 
accounts for the Manchester business and 
for the smelting works?” 

“ Certainly I do. How else could I 
know how I stood ? ” 


“Well, that disposes of one of his so- 
called points — the keeping of separate ac- 
counts for the Grange, and so on,” said 
Saxon. “ Now tell me who is this McGee ?” 

“ The best of a bad lot. They lived in 
the village. Don’t you remember that 
night poaching case in which my keeper 
Tarrant lost his arm ? Two of her brothers 
were in it.” 

“ That was after your grandfather’s 
death ? ” 

“ Yes; in the year I came of age.” 

“And you prosecuted them. So here 
we have spite and motive in Mrs Barton, 
which will justify a close examination of 
herself and her statement. Did she, or 
did she not, think it important at the 
time? If she did, she (woman like) would 
have told it to some one — which she does 
not appear to have done, or your superior 
man would have said so. If she did not, 
how comes it that she remembers now 
what passed, after all these years ? ” 

“Thirty -two years!” sighed Dennis. 

“ But even supposing that your grand- 
father really spoke those words, there’s 
nothing in them. I dare say he was 
trustee for some one — most of us are. 
Had he spoken so at a dinner-table, one 
might have been surprised ; for those who 
know what a nuisance trusts are, are not 
so anxious to burden their children or 
grandchildren with them; but surely we 
must not hold a man to the precise words 
that he sobs out over the coffin of his only 
son ! ” 

“ I was only ten years old then.” 

“ And so know nothing about it. How 
can you ? So much for that. I’m going 
over our superior man’s road, but moving 
backwards. We now come to that Gilbert 
who would not be sworn in as High 
Sheriff. What do you know about him ?” 

“Yery little, except that he went into 
the Church late in life, and never was 
married.” 

“Just the sort of man to have con- 
scientious objections to take any sort of 
oath. Not much in this. Who comes 
next?” 

“ Wybert.” 

“ The gentleman whose evidence is 
treated like a ten-pin— put up to be 


184 


A FAMILY TREE. 


knocked down, and then put up again. 
He tells Mitchell, the revolutionary bag- 
man, that he has no land or title-deeds; 
he tells the lords of the council that he 
lied to Mitchell, and he tells Willford that 
he lied to the lords of the council. A 
pretty fellow. On one point I do believe 
him. He was drunk — very drunk — when 
lie saw the Jacobite collector. Is it be- 
cause he writes the words in vino veritas 
(which I dare say he did not understand), 
that his drunken gabble is to be taken as 
Gospel truth after a century and a half has 
passed away? But mark the absurdity of 
what follows. Let us take him as we find 
him, according to Mr. Alexander. He 
was a defrauding trustee. He had let slip 
certain admissions (which if valuable now, 
were valuable then) tending to an expo- 
sure, and he confirms them (for no earthly 
reason beyond the indulgence of a piece of 
brag) to the very man most interested in 
establishing their truth ! Call him royster- 
ing and reckless! You have to prove him 
an idiot before you can account for this. 
What is it he writes? ” pursued the Q. C., 
referring to his notes. “ Ah ! here we 
have it. ° Twas well for me I stopped 
where I did” (i.e., in his statement to 
Mitchell), ‘ else hadst been a fine thing for 
thee. 1 From which the superior man would 
have us understand that the writer meant 
to hint, ‘ if I had said any more, 1 should 
hare let the cat out of the bag and you 
into the estate. 1 ” 

“It does read like that,” said Dennis, 
who had been listening — his head leaning 
on his hand, and his eyes ri vetted upon the 
floor — to every word Saxon said, but with- 
out evincing a sign of relief or anxiety, as 
point after point was attacked and set aside. 

“ Not with the context as I understand 
it,” Saxon replied. “Look here. Wybert 
owed this Willford money; let him (the 
steward) give thee a note ‘ charged on the 
rents, like the others 1 Well, don’t you see 
that if this reckless roysterer’s tongue had 
lost him his head, by not stopping short 
where he did, his estate would have been 
forfeited, and this would have been a ‘ fine 
thing’ for the one who was a creditor in 
its rents. The line i is rit ironical,’ as Mr. 
Alexander’s witty countryman has it.” 


“You are a wonderful man, Saxon,” 
said Dennis, looking up. “What a head 
you have! How you do turn things! I 
saw only one possible meaning in it; but 
go on to Gregory Dennis’ letter. What of 
that?” 

“That is the pivot on which the whole 
thing turns. All the rest is invented, or 
twisted out of its natural shape, to suit it.” 

“ Would it — as Alexander pretends — put 
me on my defence? ” 

“ I think it would, supposing, of course, 
that it be genuine.” 

“ I could not rely, as I did before, upon 
undisputed possession, for generation after 
generation?” Dennis demanded. 

“The cases are entirely different. In 
the old one you sold land to a railroad, 
under a promise that you would give them 
a good title to it, and as no one had dis- 
turbed you for the time prescribed by law, 
you could give it by merely proving that 
fact. In this new case, the commence- 
ment of your title is challenged by the 
contents of a paper, which — of itself, and 
until something is produced to contradict 
it — appears to declare a trust.” 

“Which would devolve upon me?” 

“ Which would follow the land for ever. 
Consequently you would not be allowed, 
as before, to plead the Statute of Limita- 
tions, because it does not affect trusts, but 
would be obliged to bring your deeds into 
court— and what then ?” 

“ That is your deliberate opinion ? ” 
Dennis asked, in a voice that trembled. 

“ Oh, I’m quite clear about that. You 
would have to show something better for 
yourself than Gregory’s letter is for Sir 
Stephen, and there would be an end of it; 
or, rather, you would have to be prepared 
to do so, in the event of that letter being 
established as genuine, which (bear in 
mind) it is not yet. We have only Alex- 
ander’s word for its having been found 
where he pretends, or for its being in the 
handwriting of your ancestor.” 

“It is genuine, Saxon,” said John 
Dennis. 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“ I have the answer.” 

“ Good heavens ! Are you sure ? ” 

“ Quite sure; and there are no two ways 


A FAMILY TREE. 


185 


of reading it. The letting of the house at 
King’s Morton, the thinning of the trees, 
the trust, are all referred to, and com- 
mented upon.” 

“If that be so — why — oh, its impos- 
sible!” cried the Q. C., starting from his 
seat, and pacing up and down the room. 

“No, it is not,” said Dennis, with a sad 
shake of the head. “ You have argued 
the case splendidly, Saxon, and twisted 
things round as only a first-rate advocate 
can ; but it won’t do. Truth is truth. 
The letter is genuine. I believe that Wy- 
bert Denys — drunk or sober — made use of 
these words, and they were the truth. I 
believe that Gilbert Dennis acted upon the 
reasons Mr. Alexander supposed. I know 
that my grandfather — standing over my 
fathers corpse — said the words attributed 
to him, for I have them under his hand. 
And, lastly, I do invest the rents and profits 
of the Grange, Hallowfield, and King’s 
Morton estates, because I may one day be 
called upon to account for them. Mr. 
Alexander is right upon every point.” 

“ Then,” cried the amazed Q. C., “ it 
comes to this, you are, as he said, a mere 
trustee for Willford? ” 

“No! Ten thousand times, no!” John 
Dennis almost shrieked ; but Saxon sprang 
to his side, and checked him manually. 

“ Hush ! They must not overhear you. 
Sit down again; you’ve over-excited your- 
self. Let me tell them that you are not 
well enough to go on to-day.” 

“ I am quite well.” 

“ In body, perhaps, but you have worried 
your mind into a muddle. You say one 
thing one moment, and another the next.” 

My mind is quite clear, Saxon. Up to 
a moment ago I consider that I have been 
unusually cool, considering all things. I 
flew out because — I cannot tell you why 
I flew out, Saxon. It’s one of my great- 
est miseries just now, that I cannot con- 
fide in you.” 

“ If you are serious in what you say, I 
don’t understand what use I could be to 
you.” 

“ You have heard Alexander assert that 
he can put me to the proof of my title, and 
you — the leading equity man of the day — 
eay that this is so. I am satisfied.” 


There was manly sadness, strengthened 
by resolution, in his voice and manner, as 
he rose to go back to the field of the battle 
he had lost. 

“ Stay, John, stay, old friend,” pleaded 
Saxon, catching him by the arm. “ Don’t 
be rash. What are you going to do? ” 

“ Give in.” 

“ Take time, man ! take time to reflect.” 

“They will not give it to me.” 

“ D — n them ! fight them ! ” 

“ Ah, if I only could.” 

“Anyway, do nothing rash; do nothing 
at all to-day. Wait and consider. Is 
there no one you can trust ? ” 

“ That’s unkind, Saxon. You know that 
if I could confide in any. one, it would be 
in you — my oldest and my best friend.” 

“I detest mysteries,” said the Q. C., 
speaking roughly, to keep down something 
that was rising in his throat, “ and have 
had quite enough of this. Listen to my 
last w'ords. Take care that you have a 
right to do this. There are others to 
think of besides yourself” (here the 
“ something rising ” made a great spurt) 
“ Confound it , man alive ! you mustn’t let 
these romantic ideas of yours ruin your 
family ” (but was caught by the following 
outburst, and passed). “There’s Grace, 
you know, and — and — Jack, and — ” [for 
a moment, but the latter had to give way, 
and was beaten by a length). 

“Poor fellow!” sighed John Dennis. 
“ Yes, it is a bad day’s work for Jack.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“LETTE DENYS TO DESMOND BE TRUE.” 

John Dennis was the first to enter the 
front room, where he found the baronet 
and Alexander, each at a Avindow gazing 
out into the inn garden. Saxon was the 
first to speak. He spoke quickly, as though 
he feared interruption. 

“ I think you will admit, upon reflection, 
Mr. Alexander, and that Sir Stephen will 
support me, when I urge that Mr. Dennis 
should be given more time for reflection. 
Considering the magnitude of the interests 
involved, and the labor it has cost you to 
get up this case, it is not one to be passed 
upon off hand. 


186 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“ It was on Monday, if I remember cor- 
rectly, that I made a full statement of my 
views to Mr. Dennis,” said the person first 
appealed to, silencing Sir Stephen with a 
frown, “ and this is Thursday. It was en- 
tirely to accommodate him that we con- 
sented to this interview, which was under- 
stood to be final. Indeed, when you left 
the room together just now, I was under 
the impression that the time mentioned 
was considered sufficient.” 

“Half an hour!” 

“ Make it an hour, two, three, if you 
like. The day is young yet. We are 
willing to wait. You lawyers are pleas- 
antly located, Mr. Saxon. This prospect 
must be delightful in summer.” 

“ Psha ! Sir, we did not come back to 
talk about trees ! ” snapped the Q. C. 

“ Or to present idle excuses for delay, I 
hope,” retorted Alexander. 

“ You mean well, old friend,” Dennis 
whispered, pressing the lawyer’s hand, 
“ but it is no use. I am ready, gentlemen, 
to give you my decision.” 

“ Then, to borrow Mr. Saxon’s favorite 
phrase, ‘ Let us proceed to business,’ said 
Alexander, resuming his place at the table, 
where the baronet joined him; but John 
Dennis did not move. The hand with 
which he leaned against one of the great 
bookcases, trembled, and his face was pale 
as death, but there was no tremor in his 
voice. 

“You have stated a case on behalf of 
Sir Stephen Willford,” he began, “ which, 
in plain English, means that I and my 
family have deliberately and wickedly de- 
frauded him and his.” 

“ Excuse me,” Alexander interposed, 
“ I do not think that the word ‘ defraud ’ 
ever passed my lips.” 

“ That may be, sir, but the meaning of 
it shrieked out of every sentence you spoke. 
I thank you for your concluding remarks 
on myself personally. You did me the 
credit to say that I had prepared myself 
to do what was just; but if by this you 
mean to insinuate that others of my name 
were different, it was an insult, which I 
fling back in your face. Look into the 
history of your client’s race, before you 
presume to traduce mine.” 


“ Am I supposed to stand this? ” cried 
Sir Stephen, for the first time putting in 
his word. 

“Be quiet!” Alexander interposed. 
“ These personal remarks are irritating, no 
doubt, but Mr. Dennis is entitled to our 
most lenient consideration.” 

“ I ask no leniency! What! you have 
kept me on the rack for an hour, and am 
I to have no reply ? not ten words in de- 
fence of as good a man as ever stepped — 
ray honorable and honored grandfather — 
and for a line of men to whom the very 
name of fraud was hateful? Convince me 
that they were cheats, swindlers, thieves — 
that’s what it comes to ? No ! not if you 
were to argue for a lifetime.” 

“ Then we must file our bill,” said Alex- 
ander, rising. 

“ Be good enough to resume your chair, 
and hear me out as patiently as I did you. 
Convince me of that you cannot; but I 
admit you have satisfied me in one respect, 
how or why you will not care to know. I 
will not resist your claim.” 

J udge Alexander had taken up a pen- 
holder, and was turning it about idly (as 
it seemed) in his hand. As the last words 
were spoken, it snapped in two. 

“ The result is enough for us,” he said, 
trembling all over with suppressed excite- 
ment. 

Sir Stephen sprang from his chair, and 
made a dash back to the window, unable 
to restrain his joy. 

“ This is quite what I expected of you, 
Mr. Dennis,” Alexander continued, after 
a pause, “ and fully justifies the advice I 
gave to Sir Stephen from the first. We 
have striven for peace and reconciliation ; 
I trust we have obtained both.” 

“ Your proposition, that Sir Stephen 
should lease me the Grange,” said Dennis, 
“ makes me think that he has no necessity 
for these particular lands. Is that so ? ” 

As he spoke, the baronet came back, 
stood by his mentor, and plucked him by 
the sleeve. 

“ We stand by our terms, every one of 
them,” Alexander replied. 

“ You spoke of a fictitious sale of that, 
and the Hallowfield, and King’s Morton 
estates.” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


187 


“ That we presumed would be the man- 
ner most convenient to you of transferring 
them.” 

“ But does he want— must he have 
them ? ” 

“ I really do not quite understand you, 
Mr. Dennis. If he does not, why are we 
here ? ” 

“ Would not another sale, also fictitious, 
but the other way, suit him? In short, 
will he sell them to me ? ” 

Another pluck at the sleeve. 

“I take you now. You offer the cash 
value of the lands, to buy off our claim ? ” 

“ Exactly.” 

“ Well, my reply,” said Sir Stephen, “ to 
that is ” 

“ That it requires consideration. Quite 
right, Sir Stephen,” interposed the judge 
(this aloud, but the accomppnying whisper 
was, “ D — n you, be silent ! ”). 

“ And how do you propose that the value 
should be arrived at? ” asked Alexander. 

“ By surveyors — in the usual way — one 
for each side, only I should take it as a 
favor if I might seem to name both.” 

“ It might be so arranged. Yes, I see 
no objection about that. The lands would 
be assessed as they stand ? ” 

“ As they stand.” 

“ With all the improvements?” 

“ With all the improvements.” 

“ And the money paid down.” 

“ It would be a very large sum. I could 
not promise all at once.” 

“Oh, Mr. Dennis, consider all those 
consols ! ” urged Alexander, with his pleas- 
ant smile. 

“ They represent about five years’ pur- 
chase. You would not be content with 
less than twenty.” 

“ But you are otherwise a very rich 
man.” 

“ Let that pass, sir. Be assured I will 
not owe Sir Stephen a shilling longer than 
I can possibly help. Half the purchase- 
money shall be paid on assessment, and 
the rest in six months.” 

“ Good. Now we shall ask your indul- 
gence for just ten minutes, and retire as 
you did, if you will kindly indicate that 
other room.” 

After his third ineffectual attempt to be 


heard, Sir Stephen relapsed into sulky 
silence, and sulky he remained when the 
door of the clerk’s room closed behind him. 

“ It’s no use,” he growled, “not a bit; 
I’ll have them, if it’s only to spite him. 
You may prate as you like about peace 
and reconciliation — it has paid so far; but 
I hate him. I hate him for his popularity, 
and I’ll take him down. A pretty fellow 
to drive me out of the country for what he 
called cheating ! Who’s the biggest cheat ! 
I wish to God, Alexander, that I had 
shopped him into court, and let every one 
know what a cheat he is — I do. I was a 
fool to let you give in about the mesne 
profits. He couldn’t have paid them, and 

I’d have had his d d carcass in gaol. 

No; it’s no use glaring at me. You’ve 
been as much on his side all through as on 
mine. I would have got more without 
you, and I’ll not give you half. It’s a 
shame, and you know it.” 

Alexander looked at him as one might 
regard a cockroach endowed for a moment 
with the gift of speech, but to be treated 
afterwards as a cockroach. 

“You idiot!” he hissed. “You miser- 
able, ungrateful, utter idiot! Drivel 
another word, and I will take you to John 
Dennis, and tell him ” (Here he whis- 

pered four words in his ear. ) 

***** 

“ You must be mad, Dennis,” said the 
Q. C., when the others had left for their 
conference. “If they accept, this will 
half-ruin you.” 

“ It will quite ruin me.” 

“ Yet you persist? ” 

“ It is the only way.” 

“In the name of common sense, the 
only way for what? ” 

“ To preserve my honor, Saxon.” 

After this there was nothing more to be 
said, and they waited in silence for the 
verdict. 

Alexander kept his promise. In just 
ten minutes, they were back again. Sir 
Stephen Willford, his face full of smiles, 
was now the spokesman. 

“My dear Mr. Dennis,” he said, “your 
idea is an excellent one. I have quite as 
much land at Wharnstead as I can con- 
veniently look after, and it would be a 


188 


A FAMILY TREE. 


thousand pities to lose you out of the 
county. Let it be as you propose, and 
everything shall be arranged in the most 
convenient manner to yourself. As I am 
the younger man, it would not be becoming 
in me to say 4 take my hand, in token of 
reconciliation; ’ but I should be both glad 
and proud, Mr. Dennis, if you would say 
so to me” 

They clasped hands — one of them with 
sincerity. 

“ My wretched calling makes me return 
to sordid considerations, even at such a 
moment as this,” said Alexander. “ Life 
is short; and who knows where some of 
us may be to-morrow ? Shall we jot down 
and initial a little protocol of our arrange- 
ment? Just this, for example.” 

He took up the broken pen, and wrote — 

Upon the case presented by H. Clay 
Alexander on behalf of Sir Stephen Will- 
ford , Mr. Dennis will pay him a sum equal 
to the assessed value of the Grange , Hal- 
lowjield , and King's Morton properties , in 
full discharge of all claims. 

“Now,” he observed, having read it 
over, “ that may be read at Charing Cross 
by the public crier (if there is one), and 
not a soul be the wiser; at the same time, 
it is satisfactory to my prosaic mind. Now, 
my dear Sir Stephen, no one doubts your 
word; but do oblige an old fellow, who, 
perhaps, is too punctilious about forms, by 
signing it.” 

Sir Stephen was nothing loth, and Den- 
nis, who longed to be alone, set his name 
also at the foot of the paper, which Alex- 
ander carefully folded and placed in his 
pocket-book. 

“ You are content now, I hope,” snarled 
the baronet, as they went out. 

“ Quite content, thank you.” 

And so he was. The arrangement suited 
him exactly. He had seen enough of his 
client’s character to know that if he could 
cheat him out of his share he would not 
scruple to do so. He knew that shooting 
people “ at sight ” in this effete old country, 
is followed by inconveniences which do 
not always attach in the freer land of his 
birth. And, after all, what was the value 
of revenge set against the price of Hallow- 
field alone. Even if he did not try to 


cheat him, there would he trouble and 
delay in dividing the spoil; although, at 
the time at which I write, an alien could 
hold freehold estate in England. There 
would assuredly be trouble about the 
lands, but a simple division sum would 
settle accounts when the claim was paid in 
cash ! And he would take good care that 
the payment should be made through him. 

And, strange as it may appear, he liked 
the plan because it seemed to suit John 
Dennis. Cynics say that we have no more 
bitter hatred than for those we have 
wronged : and this man had wronged John 
Dennis! Wronged him by worming his 
way into his confidence, by manufacturing 
sentiments for Stephen Willford which 
were false, and in other ways; but he 
liked him. He was glad that he offered 
his hand when that paper was signed, and 
said, “ This is a hard blow, but it might 
have been more harshly dealt. I have a 
good deal to thank you for, Mr. Alex- 
ander.” But he winced under it all the 
same. 

Was Dennis sincere? For what had he 
to thank one w r ho had helped to ruin him ? 
Could the blow have been worse than it 
was? He knew that it might have been a 
good deal worse, and as he is the person 
most interested, the reader must please 
accept his view. He bore no malice. If 
he had been deceived as to the direction 
of Alexander’s movements until the fatal 
day of explanation came, he had no one 
but himself to blame. The judge had 
behaved frankly to him, loyally to his 
friend, and had been a valuable moderator 
between them. That Sir Stephen was a 
hypocrite, was as clear to him as the sun 
at noon. Left alone, he would have 
turned him out of house and home with- 
out the faintest compunction. The com- 
promise was effected through Alexander’s 
influence. For that he had to thank him, 
and he did so out of the depths of his 
generous heart. 

When the first blow was struck, he tele- 
graphed for Jack — 

“ Get leave, and come home. I want 
you. No one ill.” 

At first he concluded the message “All 
well; ” but this was unfortunately not the 


A FAMILY TREE. 


189 


case. So he substituted the other words, 
to relieve anxiety. 

He parted with Spencer Saxon at his 
chambers, and went home. 

“Has Captain Dennis arrived?” he 
asked the janitor. 

The captain had arrived, and was taking 
a bath after his journey. 

“ Ask him to come to my room when he 
is dressed.” 

John Dennis opened his desk, and out 
of it took an old book, bound in vellum, 
and clasped with a brazen clasp, of curious 
workmanship. He opened it with a sigh, 
placed it on a table near him, and waited 
for Jack — thinking. 

“ Well, dad,” said the bold dragoon, 
when their greetings were done, “ what’s 
the row ? ” 

“ A serious one, my boy.” 

“ Something going wrong with che busi- 
ness, eh ? ” asked Jack, getting grave. 

“No; the business is all right, better 
than ever,” said his father. 

Then it flashed upon his son what it 
must be. No one ill at home — nothing 
wrong with the business 1 Why, of course, 
there could be no doubt as to what it was 
— his father was going to marry again ! 

“ Well, dad” (he was answering his own 
thoughts) “why not? You’re a young 
man still, though you are a grandfather. 
Don’t look so miserable about it. I shan’t 
forbid the banns.” 

In spite of all his trouble, the squire 
could not help laughing at such an absurd 
mistake, and the laugh did him good. I 
am not sure whether a good laugh is not 
as efficacious as a good cry, for clearing 
the mind. 

“No, Jack, I’m not going to marry, 
and if you were to guess till Doomsday, 
you would never get within a hundred 
miles of the truth, so don’t let us waste 
time.” 

“I’m all attention, dad. Fire away.” 

“Ours is a very old family, Jack. We 
have an old house, and old plate, and many 
other old things, amongst them that in- 
scription over the mantelpiece in the 
dining-room. Do you remember it, my 
son ? ” 

“ Of course I do — 


44 3Lette Dcsmontr for Dcn^s jjoe tbrougf) 

fltiS Deltas to Dcsmoroi be true 
Xoe Cengs or JDcsmonU tofll rue.” 

that’s it.” 

“Good boy! word for word! Well, 
there is something else in the family older 
even than that — a secret , Jack — a secret 
which we have kept for over two hundred 
years, and which we are bound in honor 
to keep, until we are relieved of it by one 
having the right to do so.” 

“ Well, dad, why shouldn’t we keep it? 
It seems quiet enough. We’ve got on 
pretty smoothly with it for two centuries. 
If you don’t mind it, I don’t. I don’t see 
why either of us should worry over some- 
thing that happened before our great- 
great-great-grandfathers were born. Keep 
the secret, dad, and when it comes to my 
turn, I’ll keep it. It won’t bother me. 
It won’t occupy the best bed room, or 
waste the ’42 Lafitte, or catch the measles 
when the house is full of company. I 
rather enjoy the notion of family secrets; 
they are like family portraits — surround 
you with the odor of respectability, and 
cost nothing to keep.” 

“You shall learn presently, my boy, 
what this secret cost us to keep,” said his 
father. 

“ Then there is something really serious 
the matter?” 

“ Yes, Jack, there is, and it touches our 
honor.” 

“ That is safe in your hands, sir. What- 
ever you say or do, I’ll stand up for— it’s 
sure to be right. I could not help you, 
much, to decide what to do, but if I can 
take any trouble off your hands, or relieve 
your mind of any anxiety, you’ve only to 
say the word, and it’s done.” 

“You’re a fine fellow, Jack!” replied 
his father, proudly. “ Thank you for your 
confidence. I think I have deserved it, 
for the 4 row,’ as you call it, is over, and 
there is nothing for you to do except to 
grin and bear the consequences.” 

“ I’m glad I’m out of it,” said the im- 
perturbable dragoon. “ I can do my share 
of the grinning and bearing, but I’m not 
so sure about the other part, if it’s the 
sort of row I suspect.” 

“ What do you suspect ? ” 


190 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“ That this old secret, which we are 
bound in honor to keep, has leaked out 
somehow, and you’ve got to buy up some- 
body who knows it.” 

“You are burning; I will not keep you 
longer in suspense. Take this book ” 
(giving him the vellum volume, with the 
brazen clasp), “it contains the history of 
our secret. Here, where I place a marker, 
is where you should begin to read. Never 
mind, for the present, the detached papers 
which are pasted in at the commencement. 
Read from where I have marked, carefully, 
and when you have finished, call me, and 
I will tell you all that remains to be told.” 

So saying, John Dennis left the room, 
and his son began to read the history of 
the Secret, which had been kept for two 
hundred and fifty years — read it, as no 
Dennis had ever yet read it before — out of 
the presence of Death, or the shadow of a 
newly-made grave. 


CHAPTER XTX 

THE TRUST, ACCORDING TO JOHN DENNIS. 

The pages marked by John Dennis in 
the old vellum book, were written in a 
small, clear hand, and headed thus: — 

“This statement is compiled from the 
papers signed Gregory Denys, Martha 
Denys, and Charles Willford, which will 
be found elsewhere, for the benefit of my 
grandson, who, in the ordinary course of 
nature, will be charged with our Trust at 
an early age, and need some guide for 
their proper interpretation.” 

Then follows much with which the 
reader is already acquainted, as it epitom- 
ised the life of Hugh Desmond as narrated 
$n the First Book of this history. It told 
how he had rescued Martha Denys from 
trial (or, rather, drowning) as a witch, of 
his persecution by Willford, the witch- 
finder, and his faithful services thereunder; 
how, after the murder of his wife, and 
abduction of their son, he had entrusted 
her with the casket of the three keys; 
how this had been removed from the ruins 
of the old brewliouse ; how he allowed it 
to be supposed that he had perished 
amongst those ruins, and how Willford had 
attempted to obtain possession of his 


property; how he set sail for the New 
World, to seek his son; and how his will 
and other papers, entrusted to Martin 
Earle, the goldsmith, had been stolen on 
the very day of his departure ; and then it 
went on to show what followed. 

“ Gregory Denys accompanied Desmond 
to New Caledonia, where their fears were 
realized. The expedition with which little 
Hugh was supposed to be, finding the 
colony it had gone to join, rescued, broke 
up and scattered. Part went to the West 
Indian Islands, and part — having touched 
at New York — went on to Virginia. They 
found that the boy had really been of the 
company, and was well when it dissolved; 
but which way he was taken afterwards, 
they could not ascertain. Desmond fol- 
lowed one of the ships to St. Croix, and 
Gregory returned to England. Only one 
letter was received from him between this 
time and the year 1615, when Willford ap- 
peared with a Royal Deed of Grant, and 
took possession of the lands now known 
as the Grange, Hallowfield, and King’s 
Morton estates. Gregory had no power 
to resist him, but waited, hoping against 
hope, that his master would come back 
and foil the rascal, as he had done before. 

“ Nine years passed, and then Charles, 
the son of Stephen Willford, came to Greg- 
ory with the confession pasted on page 28, 
made and signed by his father upon his 
death-bed. As the writing of this confes- 
sion is difficult to decipher, and is in some 
places, almost faded out, I will give you a 
copy here, in plain English : — 

“ ‘ I praise God that he has brought me 
to a frame of mind in which I do not fear 
to confess a deadly sin, and desire to make 
atonement therefor as much as is possible 
in this world. It was I who robbed Mar- 
tin Earle of the will and papers entrusted 
to him by Hugh Desmond. I took them 
to be the better able to identify and claim 
his property under a process wffiich I had 
instituted when he seemed to have died 
some months before. I had a presenti- 
ment that he would never return from his 
far-off voyage. For my purpose, I gained 
the ear of a ’prentice lad, one John East- 
man, and persuaded him that this Desmond 
was in a plot against the King’s Majesty, 


A FAMILY TREE. 


191 


and that the papers he left in his master’s 
charge would, if found, cost the goldsmith 
his head. So he let me into the house on 
the day Desmond sailed for America, and 
all else had gone to wish him God speed. 
This ’prentice, when first I met him, was 
dissatisfied with his master, angry with 
his fellow-’prentice, and seemed an easy 
tool; but the old man had spoken him 
kindly that morning as he went out, and, 
when all seemed won, he withstood me. 
I call heaven to witness that I did not seek 
his life. I struck him in my anger, and as 
he fell his head came against a corner of 
the iron chest in which the papers were, 
and he died. I dragged his body to the 
yard, and buried it — oh! with what labor 
and remorse— under a great stone, and had 
only time to secure the plunder, and leave 
signs that it was the work of a common 
thief, and fly, before they returned. After- 
wards I hardened my heart. I had not 
intended to kill the lad ; I was doing Des- 
mond no wrong, for he was surely dead 
now, and had not found his son. I 
doubted much if there was a living son to 
find; for he had fallen into hands that 
would spare not, and the ship which took 
his sister to Italy was wrecked. So I got 
a grant of the estates, destroyed the will 
which indicated what and where they 
were, and prospered. But the hand of 
death is on me now, and I see my sin. I 
charge thee, my son, who wrote this, to 
make restitution— to Desmond if he be 
living, or to his kin if he be dead — as you 
value the repose of my miserable soul, and 
hope for mercy yourself when you are as 
1 am now. When I am buried, hie thee 
to Manchester, and seek out one Gregory 
Denys, an honest man, and true to Des- 
mond. He will tell thee all that may be 
known about him, and aid thee to do my 
will. 1 

“ To this confession he signed his name, 
and it was brought to our ancestor, a poor 
smith, John, but an honor to our race, and 
the founder of its fortunes. 

“ Charles Willford was true to his trust. 
He followed Hugh Desmond to America, 
and hunted for him through all the 
colonies, braving dangers and privations 
which are partly recounted in his letters. 


| When he died, Gregory, by arrangement 
I between them made before he left, took 
possession of the lands, and they have re- 
mained in our family ever since. 

“So you see that we are not masters of 
the Grange and the Staffordshire estates, 
as all the world believes; but only care- 
takers of them for the heir of Hugh Des- 
mond, to whom we owe most of the land 
we really possess ; for when he entrusted 
the casket to Martha Denys, he gave her 
the deeds of our Manchester property and 
that at Tiffield Brook for herself and her 
son. He made our fortunes, and we should 
be curs indeed if we ever forgot it. 

“ My dear boy, the oath which Martha 
Denys swore is a very solemn one. Wiser 
heads than yours or mine have held that 
it must be kept sacred. *■ May God so deal 
with me and mine , as I and they — with 
knowledge of my oath — deal with thee and 
thine , so long as there may be a Denys to 
serve and a Desmond who needs our service 9 
— are no light words. 

“ You will read on pages 97, 109, and 
300, how some of our ancestors have dis- 
cussed their position. I agree with Cyril 
Dennis, that sufficient trouble was not 
taken to find Desmond’s daughter (who 
was saved from the wreck, as is well 
proved, for Martha Denys was with her, 
and came back safe). Too much faith 
was pinned upon finding Desmond or his 
son, until all clue to the other child was 
lost. I also agree with David (a conscien- 
tious man, and a great lawyer, as appears 
by his works, which you will find in the 
library,) that, Desmond’s will having been 
destroyed, we must go back to his instruc- 
tions to Martha Denys, and account to the 
holder of the keys as he bade her — if ever 
they are presented. But this was written 
many years ago, and the longer the time 
that passes, the greater should be our 
caution. 

“ Desmond gave one key to his daughter 
before she went to Italy, the second fell 
into Willford’s hands by accident, and he 
took the third with him. He might have 
found his son, and given him that third 
key as a token ( for Gregory had written — 
see page 41 — that the will had been de- 
stroyed, and he might have received the 


192 


A FAMILY TREE. 


letter). On the other hand, he might 
have lost that key, or had it stolen from 
him; and the same with regard to the 
others. So that if these are ever presented, 
we must not take them as evidence of a 
gift, as Desmond intended, but enquire 
carefully into how they were come by. 
They may be presented to us. We have 
all had presentiments that they will. Be 
not you the first to think differently. 
Stranger things have come to pass. 

“ David’s other notes are worthy of re- 
spect. ‘ If the keys never be brought back/ 
he writes, ‘ still if one doth prove that he 
is the right heir of Hugh Desmond, we 
must needs admit him; for although the 
delivery to a stranger, for good considera- 
tion, of the key of a chest containing deeds 
be a good delivery thereof, and conse- 
quently of the land to which they pertain, 
this ousteth not the right of the heir, who 
takes by inheritance, no such delivery hav- 
ing been made.’ 

“ Lastly— remember this. On no Ac- 
count whatever is this trust to be 
made known, save by the head of the 
family to his successor, or to a recog- 
nized Desmond. Before your poor father’s 
corpse, I prayed that I might be spared 
until you were of an age to understand it; 
and you will now remember that I have 
often impressed upon you how sacred to 
us— first as Christians, and next as gentle- 
men — is an obligation w 7 hich rests upon 
our honor. I was preparing you for this 
— not in vain, as your conduct on several 
occasions has proved. Act as my private 
papers will show you I have acted by the 
properties in question, and my blessing, 
and God’s blessing go with you.” 

Thus ended the retrospect made by old 
John Dennis and read by the father of its 
present reader, when he stood all alone in 
the world, a boy of seventeen. 

So absorbed was Jack in the narrative, 
that he did not notice when his father 
came in (John Dennis stayed away until 
the temptation to see how Jack was 
taking it became too strong), and when 
he had finished, and threw up his eyes in 
wonder, there his father stood, w’atching 
him. 

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Why, 


dad, it would make a novel, only I don’t 
see where the trouble comes in.” 

“ Sir Stephen Willford, aided by an Am- 
erican lawyer, has made a claim for the 
Staffordshire estates,” replied Dennis. 

“ Don’t he wish he may get them ! What 
has he to do with it?” 

“ His lawyer has an old letter from 
Gregory Denys to Charles Willford, in 
which he writes of a Trust, and an oath 
to keep it, and this, coupled with other 
facts they have dug out of our history, is 
the foundation of a pretence, that we hold 
this land for the Willfords.” 

“ What insolence ! ” 

“ They have much to show for it, Jack; 
they have that Royal Grant; they have 
that letter, and those facts — all true in 
effect, but false by application ; they have 
what Saxon says would make a Court of 
Equity put me on my defence.” 

“Well, what then? We have a good 
one,” said Jack. 

“ You forget. Turn to the first lines of 
old John Dennis’ last paragraph. On no 
account whatever is our Trust to be made 
known, save by the head of the family to 
his successor, or to a recognized Desmond. 
My mouth is sealed, Jack, my hands are 
tied ; I cannot defend myself.” 

“ But, surely,” Jack argued, “ such a fix 
as this was not foreseen. It seems to me, 
dad, that our first duty is to stick up for 
the estates, and if we can’t do so accord- 
ing to rule, we must do so somehow . Of 
the two evils — licking Sir Stephen is not 
the greatest— don’t you think so, dad ? ” 

“ That would entail publicity, and pub- 
licity, litigation. Scores of spurious Des- 
monds would appear; we should have no 
peace ; we should be harrassed by actions 
and suits, and slowly bled to death by 
lawyers’ costs. No, my boy, there’s no 
fighting to be done; but there is a third 
evil— a little bit less than the other two — 
and that I have accepted. I have pro- 
mised to buy Sir Stephen out, Jack.” 

“ Whew. That’ll cost money.” 

“ The full value of the estates. They 
bring in about eighteen thousand a year. 
This at (let us say) twenty years’ purchase, 
would represent a capital sum of three 
hundred and sixty thousand pounds. ,1 


A FAMILY TREE. 


193 


think that by selling this house, and the 
Manchester business, and giving, in part 
payment, my shares in the Tiflield Brook 
Works, 1 cau just make it up. But this is 
ruin. Jack.” 

“ My God ! yes.” 

“ For myself I don’t care, and you are 
pretty well provided for, under your moth- 
er’s marriage settlement. It comes hard- 
est upon poor Grace. 1 must have a home 
for Grace.” 

“You’ll have the Grange, surely, when 
you’ve paid its value? ” 

“ To live in,” John Dennis answered, 
with a smile ; “ but where is the bread and 
mutton to come from? Every shilling of 
rent and profit must go into the trust fund. 
Will you do something for your sister, 
Jack?” he asked, in a husky voice, and 
with wistful eyes. 

“No, sir,” Jack replied, with decision, 
“ I will not; but I’ll do everything for you. 
I’ll sell the things in settlement; I’ll sell 
my commission; I’ll sell the coat off my 
back, and go to work in my shirt sleeves in 
the Manchester factory, for thirty shillings 
a week, sooner than have no share in this. 
Dad, I thought I loved and respected you 
up to the hilt already, but, by heavens! 
I’d rather be Jack Dennis than a duke, 
this day ! ” 

It was some time before either of them 
spoke again. 

“ I only want a few hundreds for Grace, 
till I get on my legs again,” said John 
Dennis, putting away his handkerchief; 
“ I’ll make it up if I live, Jack, never fear. 
I’ll manage Hallowfield myself now, and 
that will help. Why shouldn’t I pay my- 
self, instead of some one else, if I can do 
the work as well?” 

“ Good job Gerty is provided for,” said 
Jack. “We must get some decent young 
fellow with lots of tin, for Grace.” 

“ I rather fancy that she has got a young 
fellow for herself, but I don’t know about 
the ‘tin,’ said his father, with the first 
smile that had lit his face for a few days. 

“ Who is he, dad?” 

“ His name is D’Esmonde (D, apos- 
trophe, and an e at the end). Do you 
know, Jack, I once had a dim sort of idea 
that he was the man we want, but I sound- 

13 


ed him, and his sister also — I even showed 
her the casket — but they know nothing, 
seek nothing.” 

“ Where do they come from ? ” 

“From the United States.” 

“Oh, Lord! Yankees!” exclaimed the 
bold dragoon. But that won’t do for 
Grace.” 

“Wait till you see them,” replied his 
father. 

Grace had come up for the season, and 
banished brown liolland from the London 
house for about a month, at this crisis, 
and the D’Esmondes (who had taken up 
their quarters in a huge hotel, conducted 
upon American principles), were again 
welcome guests. Her father was right, 
she had got that young fellow for herself; 
but whether he had gotten her, was a 
question yet to be asked, and he funked 
it, for he was a shy, proud man, this D’Es- 
monde. 

“ They will be prejudiced against me, 
because I’m an American,” he fretted, 
“ and think I’m after her money.” 

Nevertheless, he took great interest in 
Miss Dennis’ movements, and she — inno- 
cent as a daisy! — let out when she usually 
rode in the park, what days she sketched 
at South Kensington, and so on, and soon 
ceased to be surprised at finding George 
loafing about in the vicinity. Then, he 
had to call for Fanny when she spent the 
morning in Eaton Square (which was 
about three times a week), so that they 
saw a good deal of each other. 

“ Now Jack’s come,” Grace told Fanny 
D’Esmonde, “ he’ll show your brother all 
sorts of sights, and introduce him to some 
young men. Dear papa’s friends are all 
very nice, but just a wee bit fogie, don’t 
you think ? ” 

It may he that Jack, not having heart 
for gaiety, neglected to keep his sister’s 
promise, or, perhaps George preferred 
fogies. Be this as it may, things went on 
pretty much the same as before, except 
that papa became very busy — more busy 
than Grace had ever known him to be. 

There were busy people at the Grange, 
also — surveyors, two sets of them (one for 
the land and houses, and one for the coal) 


194 


A FAMILY TREE. 


— and all employed by John Dennis, who 
placed his house at their disposal, as the 
inn at King’s Morton was not renowned. 
To his great surprise, Percy Tremayne 
found himself requested to assist in the 
valuation of the land. 

“ I don’t forget that you are not a sur- 
veyor,” Dennis wrote, “but you know 
every yard of the place, and its worth, as 
a farmer. You look after rents and crops, 
and the other fellow will do the trigono- 
metry.” 

So just when Percy had promised him- 
self a little quiet, and perhaps a run up to 
town after the bustle and worry of getting 
Wharnstead ready for Sir Stephen, who 
spent his Easter there; he was put in har- 
ness again. 

The lady (presumptive) of the Manor, 
also spent her Easter in the country with 
her family. She could afford to be “ good.” 
How sweetly she begged papa’s and mam- 
ma’s pardon, and how nice she was to 
Mary — need not be told. How she went 
over Wharnstead, duly protested, and 
shyly suggested dull amber silk for this 
room, and blue satin for that, was noted 
by the young man from Jackson and Gra- 
ham’s in a big book, but for the present 
does not concern us. It may however be 
interesting to state that Percy beheld all 
this without the faintest quiver of jealousy 
or heartache. Bessie affected to ignore 
that he had ever loved her; treated him 
as a dear old friend with whom flirtation 
was impossible, and the better she played 
her part, the more thoroughly he despised 
her. 

When the survey began, the baronet 
and his right hand man Mr. Alexander, 
returned to Wharnstead, and was most 
hospitable to the surveyors — out of respect 
for his worthy neighbor. Acting upon 
the same kindly motive, he praised the 
condition of the fields, vaunted the extent 
and good quality of the coal, and the 
rising importance of King’s Morton. “ I 
shouldn’t wonder if he’s going to sell some 
of it,” he remarked. “ Hope he’ll get a 
good long price.” The festivities at which 
these eulogies were repeated, somewhat 
retarded the surveyors’ work, but put three 
out of the four into an excellent humor 


with their entertainer— with themselves, 
and with the property they surveyed. 

The fourth (Percy) was in a fidget to 
get the business done and over. Count 
Tasti had called on his mother, and shown 
her own letter with quite a collection of 
foreign postage stamps upon the envelope, 
as a palpable excuse for his silence. It 
had missed him at Milan, followed him to 
Vienna, Berlin, Paris, and eventually ran 
him to earth in London. He was delight- 
ed to renew their acquaintance (without 
the slightest hint at the starvation days 
when it was begun), and was her most 
humble servant to command. 

“ He knows all about our family,” Mrs. 
Tremayne wrote; “and has promised to 
bring me our pedigree, which he had made 
out when he was trying to persuade my 
father to petition for the restoration of 
some property in Venice, which the Aus- 
trians had confiscated. He says I am not 
the first of my race who married an Eng- 
lishman, for that I am the direct descend- 
ant of a Ribolini who eloped with a British 
Buccaneer. There’s a romance for you! 
He knows nothing about the key which 
he hears of now for the first time from 
me; but has promised to enquire amongst 
some old people and servants, and pick up 
the clue for us if there be one. George 
Desmond and his sister drove over on Sat- 
urday. She was looking very well, and as 
bright as a bee. Won’t the corn grow of 
itself, and the beasts eat and drink with- 
out you for a day or two ? I should like 
you to see Count Tasti, if only to thank 
him for the trouble he is taking. Fanny 
seems to have made a great friend of Miss 
Dennis; do you know her brother? He 
is in town I hear, &c., &c., &e.” 

Percy had never seen Captain Dennis. 
Beyond the “ card case,” and a few domes- 
tic comments made at the Grange on the 
absent son and brother, he had never 
heard of him; but no sooner had he re- 
read his mother’s letter than he began to 
envy, hate and malign this promising 
young officer and unoffending gentleman 
in a most unchristian manner. And all be- 
cause Fanny D’Esmonde had made a great 
friend of Grace Dennis, and the good- 
looking dragoon (he had been shown his 


A FAMILY TREE. 


195 


photograph) was her brother! What a 
pull these idle butterflies have over us 
working bees — he thought. Here's this 
one fluttering about the park and enjoying 
himself right and left, whilst I am taking 
stock of sheep and measuring muck heaps ! 
And that sister of his! Of course she’ll 
be getting Fanny invitations to balls where 
he will meet her, and tickets for flower 
shows where they’ll walk together; and 
be backing him up in every way! 

So Fanny had visited his mother and 
seen her home on Father Thames in all 
its spring-tide dress. He could shut his 
eyes and picture her moving about over 
the emerald velvet lawn with her southern 
swing — as bright as a bee and as graceful 
as an antelope — revelling in the beauties 
nature spread before her, and reflecting 
them back from the mirror of her delight- 
ed face as the river reflected the sky. He 
was glad that Captain Dennis was not 
with her there. 

The news about his pedigree and the 
key went in at one eye and out of the 
other; but his mother’s last observation 
respecting Count Tasti struck him as a 
very proper one. He would make a point 
of running up to town for a few days as 

soon as the survey was over, to to 

thank Count Tasti. 

There has been very little love-making 
in these pages, but some very smart prac- 
tice in this direction has been going on, 
so to speak, behind them, whilst theD’Es- 
mondes were at the Grange. 


CHAPTER XX. 

VERY CONVINCING. 

John Dennis spent most of the time 
now in the city or at his solicitor’s, learn- 
ing the lesson which those who want to 
raise money all of a sudden have to go 
through — namely, that the holding value, 
and the selling value of a thing, are two 
vastly different quantities. This lesson 
had double application in his case, and 
gave him double anxiety. The sum to be 
paid Sir Stephen as the value of the Staf- 
fordshire estates would be calculated upon 
their value to hold; the other property 
upon which this money was to be raised, 


was worth only its value to sell. The 
shares in the Tiffield Brook works for 
example. To hold, they were away above 
par; but throw half of them on the mar- 
ket, and down they all would go. Indeed 
“ the mere fact of your going out of it,” 
John Dennis was told, “ will shake public 
confidence in the company for awhile. 
You must sell gradually, and wait.” But 
wait he could not. 

There was trouble also in disposing of 
the Manchester business. His partnership 
with Mr. Scott had three years to run, and 
the land was leased to it for that period. 
Mr. Scott would consider about dissolving 
by mutual consent, or buying Mr. Dennis 
out, if he would only be patient about it, 
and wait. But wait he could not, and to 
sell the land without the good-will of the 
business with which it w r as identified, 
would be a sacrifice indeed. 

So affairs got more and more dismal as 
they were looked into, and those who had 
to be consulted wondered what on earth 
John Dennis was about. “ A fellow may 
want to get out of trade,” said the hope of 
his stockbroker. “ I can understand that , 
when he goes in for a title, but hang me if 
I’d chuck as Dennis is going to do!” For 
a report had got abroad that Mr. Dennis 
of the Grange was to be made a peer, and 
one journal was “ permitted to announce 
that his title would be Baron Morton, of 
King’s Morton.” If it had been known 
that his sou was going to “chuck” his 
commission in the army, the odor of a 
rodent might have been perceived in the 
air. 

Yes; poor Jack’s fortune would have to 
go. A sorry fortune enough for a bachelor 
captain ; but a drop in the ocean to be 
levied. Still, it had to go, and his com- 
mission with it — and to go cheap, for the 
regiment was in orders (out of its turn) 
for India. 

So the surveyors went on finding out 
how good and valuable was the property 
to be redeemed ; and the means of redemp- 
tion shrunk, until it became clear that 
total ruin stared John Dennis in the face. 

He never quailed, he never repined ; and 
Jack, his son, backed him up in bank par- 
lors and stock-brokers’ offices, listening 


196 


A FAMILY TREE. 


demurely to a lot of talk he could not 
make head or tail of, just for the chance of 
pressing poor old dad’s hand under the 
table now and then, and letting them see 
“ it was all right, you know.” 

From unsuspecting Grace came the 
stabs. She — lady of the house, and man- 
ageress-in-chief of its hospitalities — wanted 
to know when he would give his dinners, 
and what night she should fix for the first 
ball ; “ because, dear papa, you know,” she 
urged, “ that unless we get the invitations 
out soon, all the nice people will be en- 
gaged.” 

He had not the heart to tell her there 
would be no more balls for her, and that 
the fine old family plate which had so 
often graced his board must go to the 
silversmith, or there would be no dinner 
for themselves before the season was out. 
Well, he was keeping the Trust; he was 
doing as Duty bade, and — 

“Ever following her commands. 

On, with toil of heart and knees and hands, 

Thro’ the long gorge, to the far light had won 

His path upward, and prevailed.” 

And already caught some glimpse of “ the 
shining table lands ” above the — 

“ Toppling crags of Duty scaled, 

To which our God himself is moon and sun.” 

One day, when he had come home Un- 
usually jaded and weary in body, and sick 
at heart — for Jack, occupied with other 
business in his interests, had not been with 
him, and things were looking their blackest 
— he was told that a lady and gentleman 
were in the drawing-room waiting to see 
him. He had just flung himself heavily 
into his easy chair, and was in no humor 
to entertain visitors. Was not Miss Grace 
at home ? 

Miss Grace was, and had ordered that 
these cards were to be taken to him as 
soon as he came in. 

Upon these cards was engraved — 

“ Mrs. Tremayne, 

“ The Willows, Kingston-on-Thames.” 

“ Le Conti Tasti.” 

Had they been waiting long? 

Nearly an hour. 


“ Young Tremayne’s mother, I suppose,” 
he said to himself, as he went down ; 
“ come to thank me for giving her boy a 
lift. I wish she hadn’t.” 

But what did the little stout man, with 
short white hair and beard, and buttoned 
up so tight, with a red and green ribbon 
on the lapel of his coat, whom he found 
with her and Grace — what did he want? 

“I hope I have not disturbed you, Mr. 
Dennis,” the lady began, when Grace had 
introduced both visitors, “ especially as my 
only excuse is such a bad one.” 

At any other time he would have replied 
that any excuse which gave him the pleas- 
ure of her acquaintance would be a good 
one; but now such little courtesies hung 
fire. He simply bowed, and this brought 
her to the point. 

“ In one word, my excuse is curiosity. 
I am told that you can enlighten me on a 
matter which has been puzzling me for a 
long time; and as my son cannot get away 
from his employment to do so for me, I 
have ventured to call upon you myself, 
and ask you what is the meaning of this?” 

So saying, she placed in his hand a gold 
key, the haft whereof was fashioned like a 
heart, entwined with forget-me-nots. 

Had it been red hot, the start that John 
Dennis gave might have been accounted 
for. 

“ May I ask you one or two questions 
before I answer yours ? ” he said, as soon 
as he could catch his breath again. 

“ Oh, certainly ! Give and take is only 
fair.” 

“ In the first place, who told you I could 
give you any information about this curi- 
ous key ? ” 

“ If you will permit me,” Count Tasti 
interposed, in excellent English, “ I will 
reply, as it is on account of investigations 
made by me that madame is here. I was 
informed by a very old man — a country- 
man of my own, named Fabri, living in 
Dean Street, Soho — that no one would 
probably know more of the Desmond 
family than a Mr. Dennis (he called the 
name Denys), who once lived in Deans- 
gate, Manchester. I went to Deansgate, 
Manchester, and found that you, sir, are 
the head of the house of which he spoke.” 


A FAMILY TREE. 


197 


“ That only leads to a further question,” 
replied Dennis, with something like his old 
smile. “ What has the Desmond family 
to do with this key?” 

“ This,” said the count. “ Many years 
ago, I had the honor of being intimate 
with this lady’s father, who was then an 
exile. Italy was not a kingdom then, and 
some of her noblest sons were — were as 
my good friend. When our prospects 
brightened, I tried to induce him to claim 
certain estates long confiscated, and for 
this purpose I had his pedigree made out 
— a long affair, very long; for, as his claim 
would have to be made through a daugh- 
ter of the house of Ribolini, which is now 
extinct, we had to trace back his line to 
theirs. Do I make myself understood ? ” 

“ Go on,” Dennis replied, almost in a 
whisper. 

“We traced it back to a Maria de Ribo- 
lini, who married an Englishman, named 
Desmond, and was murdered in his stead 
by some of her kinsmen, who followed 
them to this country for revenge. You 
will think that this has nothing to do with 
the curious key; but, with your patience, 
I think I can show you that it may have.” 

“ Proceed in your own way, count. I 
assure you I am all attention.” 

“ Many thanks. After the death of this 
poor Maria, her only child* was brought 
back to Venice, and from a list of family 
jewels made out years afterwards, and 
w r bich fell into the hands of the expert 
who drew up the pedigree I have men- 
tioned, it appears that this key was hers. 
Now, the fact of an object possessing no 
very great value, except as a work of art, 
being included amongst the diamonds and 
other precious trinkets she obtained by 
marriage, seems to show that it may have 
a history. Does it not strike you so? ” 

“It may have a history,” echoed John 
Dennis. “ Yes, it may have a very strange 
history.” 

“ Good. It may also be that its history 
is bound up in some way with that of the 
Desmonds, as it was brought from Eng- 
land. If, therefore, the old Fabri (whose 
father and grandfather were born and died 

• The worthy count makes a mistake here. 


in the service of this lady’s ancestors) be 
correct in saying that you are well-in- 
formed about Desmond, we hoped you 
might be able to tell us something about 
the key. Is your question answered, Mr. 
Dennis? ” 

“ It is; and also in part one which would 
have followed — namely, What makes you 
think that your key has a history? Have 
you any other reason than that you have 
just stated? ” 

“ Only this,” Mrs. Tremayne replied. 
“ My father prized it much. At the time 
Count Tasti has mentioned, we were often 
in want of bread; but he w r ould not part 
with it, and conjured me never to do so. 
There is something else which strikes me 
as curious, only I am hardly at liberty to 
mention it at present.” 

“I will not force your confidence,” said 
John Dennis, w T ith suppressed emotion. 
“I have only one more query. Is the 
pedigree Count Tasti spoke of in exist- 
ence?” 

“ I have it here,” said the count, tapping 
his breast. “ I bring it from our legation, 
where it was finished, to-day for madame; 
but there is nothing in it that helps us.” 

“ Will you trust me sufficiently to let 
me judge for myself? ” 

“ Perfectly, w ith madame’s permission.” 

“ I really must apologize for taking up 
so much of your time,” she said. “ We 
did not dream of going into all these 
private matters, which cannot interest you ; 
but as you asked ” 

“I accept with pleasure all the conse- 
quences of my inquisitiveness,” said Den- 
nis; “and I have listened to the count’s 
statement with the deepest interest. My 
dear Mrs. Tremayne, this is no fagon de 
parler , I assure you. That key has a his- 
tory, which I may— God grant I may! — be 
able to tell you. But bear with me a little 
— I have been much agitated to-day.” 

“And we have bored you! I am so 
sorry.” 

“I shall look over some old papers, and 
— and — come again this time to-morrow,” 
he broke off; “and leave me this,” touch- 
ing the parchment, wdiicli had been drawn 
out from under Count Tasti’s red and 
green ribbon. 


198 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“ Did it not strike you that our friend’s 
maimer was a little odd ? ” Percy’s mother 
inquired of the count, when they were 
seated in her carriage. “ He was barely 
civil at first, and how excited he got at the 
end!” 

“ It is the privilege of his estimable 
countrymen to be eccentric, my dear 
madam,” said Tasti, shrugging his shoul- 
ders. 

“Brookes!” shouted John Dennis 
through the trap of a Hansom he hailed 
before his late visitors were well out of 
sight; “and half-a-crown if you get there 
before half-past six.” 

Half-past six w r as Mr. Saxon’s regular 
hour for dining at his club when in town. 
It wanted five minutes of that interesting 
hour when John Dennis swooped upon 
him like a kite upon its prey, and bore 
him away to a deserted card-room. 

“Now,” he panted, “look over this” 
(spreading a parchment upon the table), 
“and tell me if it’s all right.” 

“ It’s a pedigree,” observed the Q. C. 

“Of course! I know that; but is it 
correct? Read it, and see.” 

“ My dear fellow, how can I possibly say 
if it is correct, if I read it a dozen times! 
It begins with one Oscar de Ribolini, and 
it ends with one Percy Tremayne; and I 
dare say it contains the births, marriages, 
and deaths of a number of people utterly 
unknown to me. For example, how can 
I tell that Cosmo de Ribolini really mar- 
ried Marcelina Bossio, August 23, 1611, 
and had issue three sons — Hugo, Carlos, 
and Francisco — and one daughter, Maria ?” 

“ It’s proved — it’s proved, Saxon ! by 
the pedigree,” Dennis cried, slapping the 
parchment. 

“ Then why ask me if it is correct? ” 

“ 1 mean is it correct in form— is it what 
the law calls evidence ? Answer me that.” 

“ It depends. If it comes out of proper 
custody, is supported, and not contradic- 
ted, it may be.” 

The joyful countenance of Dennis fell. 

“Only may be!” he moaned. “What 
cursed quibbling ! ” 

“Now do just consider. If I get some 
sheep-skin and seals, and write down that 


the Emperor of China married my grand- 
mother, and had issue Hugo, Carlos, and 
Spencer Saxon— is that to bind anybody?” 

“But this is certified by a judge, who 
states distinctly lie had the proofs before 
him. Now, do attend. You read* Italian, 
I know. Here’s his signature and his 
seal, dated 1847 ; and it is attested by the 
Sardinian minister. Don’t that make it 
good ? ” 

“ Let me see. Yes, you are right. Why 
didn’t you show me that at once, instead 
of wanting to know if all this marrying 
and burying be correct? You are brim- 
ming over with mysteries, Dennis, and my 
dinner is being spoiled.” 

“ Oh ! never mind your dinner. If you 
only knew what this is to me! ” exclaimed 
Dennis. 

“ Come and share my lamb cutlets?” 

“ I’ll not taste food till I am sure this is 
authentic! ” slapping the pedigree. 

“ Then go, my dear fellow, to the Italian 
Legation, hunt up the minister or a secre- 
tary, and ask; only wait till they have had 
their dinners.” 

“ Bravo! I never thought of that.” 

“ Of their dinners? ” 

“No, no; how you worry! It isn’t kind, 
Saxon, when you see — but these last en- 
tries” (returning to the pedigree), “they 
are English. * Helena de Cravalli married 
Percy Tremayne, at the parish church of 
Greenwich, and their boy was born in 
London.’ That can be confirmed any day.” 

“ Fee one shilling to the clerks,” said 
Saxon. “ But my lamb cutlets ” 

“ ‘ May good digestion wait on appetite, 
and health on both,’ ” quoted Dennis, 
wringing his hand. “ I’m off.” 

“ Without expounding the mystery? ” 

“ T es ; I have too much respect for your 
lamb cu-tlets.” 

Away he went to hunt up the minister. 
The chancelferie was closed for the day. 
Where did his Excellency live? No. 10, 
Westbourne Park Gardens. 

Away he went (the vixenest chestnut 
screw in that Hansom long remembered 
the day) to Westbourne Park Gardens. 
Was the minister at home? His Excel- 
lency had just gone out to dinner? Could 
the Secretary of Legation be found? Well, 


A FAMILY TREE. 


he sometimes went to the St. James’ 
Club about that time. 

Away bowled the Hansom to Piccadilly, 
and there, on the steps — as good luck 
would have it — stood the secretary, with a 
cigarette in his mouth, and his lorgnette 
in his hand, killing time until it would be 
proper to appear at the opera. 

In a quarter of an hour afterwards, away 
went John Dennis again — this time to a 
telegram office, where he wrote the follow- 
ing message : — 

“ To Percy Tremayne, Esg . , 

“ Wharnstead, King's Morton . 

“ Stop the survey , and come to me in- 
stantly . 

“ John Dennis ' ’ 

But Percy never got that message. He 
had left Wharnstead ten hours before it was 
delivered, and it fell into other hands. 
There had been trouble at Wharnstead — a 
terrible quarrel between the cousins — out 
of which Sir Stephen emerged with a well- 
defined black eye. Percy had knocked 
him down and left the house, late as it 
was. 

No one, except Alexander, knew what 
it was all about. It began in Percy’s bed- 
room, whither the baronet had followed 
him, after a very noisy dinner party to the 
surveyor’s, and with a good deal of Cham- 
pagne and Burgundy under his belt. Per- 
haps these fell out amongst themselves: 
for Burgundy is hot-headed, and the “glo- 
rious vintage ” brooks no rival near its 
throne. Anyhow, the baronet gave them 
the blame. He had taken too much, and 
stumbled against the bed-post — “ that was 
all,” he stammered. 

“But Tremayne has left the house!” 
cried his angry master. 

“Good job too, d d upstart! Can 

get a better fellow for half the money,” 
quoth the Burgundy. 

“1 believe he knocked you down. What 
is the matter with your eye? ” 

“ Hit it against the bed-post,” lied the 
Champagne. 

“ Bah ! Don’t play the fool with me. I 
believe he knocked you down, I hope he 
did. Do you know what happens to a 


199 

man who slaps another in my country! 
He get’s killed.” 

“ We have none of that infernal non- 
sense here,” said the baronet with blue 
lips, “ and so I tell you. I’m not going to 
fight that fellow — a fellow no better than 
my servant.” 

“You white-livered skunk! You’re 
not fit to black his shoes.” Alexander 
almost spat the words at him. 

“ If you talk like that you can walk out 
after him.” 

“Can I?” Alexander replied between 
his teeth. “ Then I’ll know beforehand 
what he walked out for. Now ” (striding 
up to Sir Stephen, and seizing him by the 
throat with a bony clutch, not to be es- 
caped), “now then! Tell me why he 
‘walked out’ — the whole truth — or I’ll 
shake the life out of you.” 

And he let him have a sample of what 
the threatened operation would be like; 
by way of encouragement. 

King’s Morton was not going to be put 
out of its jog-trot ways even by telegrams. 
John Dennis’ message was delivered at 
Wharnstead just about the time when 
Percy (who had passed the night at the 
station inn) took his seat in the London 
train. It fell into Alexander’s hands, 
who felt no scruple about opening it. 

“ Stop the survey /” he exclaimed. “ What 
is the matter now?” What tricks were 
being played, and he absent? This would 
not do at all. He packed up his bag, 
ordered a carriage, and leaving the baronet 
to sleep off his “ drunk ” and develope his 
black eye, started for town, to have it out 
with Dennis. 

— — ♦ 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE FRUITS OF IT. 

Judge Alexander found the man he 
was going “to have it out” with in good 
company and was not sorry for it. The 
velvet glove had been tried, and now it was 
time to see what the iron hand would do. 
He found John Dennis in his drawing- 
room, where Mrs. Tremayne and Percy, 
George and Fanny D’Esmonde, andSaxon, 


200 


A FAMILY TREE. 


Q. C., were assembled, and in a voice loud 
enough for all to hear, asked — 

“Now, Mr. Dennis, what is this I hear 
about your stopping the survey? ” 

“ Perhaps I had better answer that ques- 
tion,” said George D'Esmonde coming for- 
ward. “ Shall I, Percy ? ” 

“ I treat only with principals, sir,” re- 
plied Alexander in his loftiest tones. 

“That is precisely the reason why you 
should treat with Mr. Tremayne and your 
humble servant,” George replied. 

“ Ha! I see your game. Well then, let 
me tell you that if any one has advised Mr. 
Dennis that he can shunt his liability to us 
by a bogus transfer to you — he’s made a 
mighty big mistake.” 

“ The estates to which you refer, Mr. 
Alexander, were not his to transfer,” re- 
plied George. 

“ We know that ”( with a scoff) “ and as 
he chooses to play fast and loose with 
us, others shall know it too. He got 
those estates as trustee for Sir Stephen 
Willford, and kept them from him by 
fraud.” 

“ No, sir,” replied D’Esmonde. “ He 
got them as trustee of the heirs of Hugh 
Desmond and kept them for us like the 
high-souled gentleman he is.” 

Had Percy and George rehearsed it ten 
times over, they could not have done it 
half so well ; for it was spontaneous. They 
walked up to where John Dennis stood, 
and each took and pressed a hand. 

“ May one venture to enquire,” asked 
Alexander somewhat subdued, and there- 
fore lapsing into elegance of diction, “ who 
are included in the word ‘ us ? ’ ” 

“ Mrs. Tremayne and myself,” George 
replied. 

“ Then perhaps one of you will kindly 
enlighten me as to who this Hugh Des- 
mond was, and what interest he possessed 
in the estates granted by King James the 
First, to Stephen Willford.” 

“ That sir, is our own private affair,” 
D’Esmonde answered him stiffly. 

“ Look here, George,” interposed John 
Dennis. “ Mr. Alexander has acted fairly 
and kindly in this matter. I think he 
ought to be told. You can tell him. He 
stood between me and a litigation which 


would have been disastrous to us all. He 
thought he could convince me I was in 
the wrong. Why not convince him now 
that I was not? ” 

“ Your wish is my law,” replied George. 

“ And ours,” said Percy. 

“ We leave him in your hands, sir; con- 
vince him yourself.” 

“ You forget the obligation, my boys.” 

“ So particular, when it is all over. Well, 
Percy, bring along the book, and we’ll do 
the convincing for ourselves,” said George 
D’Esmonde. 

Whilst the three are going over the 
strange eventful history recorded in the 
vellum book, the reader must be told how 
they became entitled to use it. 

The pedigree left with John Dennis by 
Mrs. Tremayne established her status a3 
the heiress at law of Hugh Desmond so 
conclusively, that the trustee could tell 
her the history of the golden key, and 
when the silver one was mentioned mother 
and son exclaimed in a breath— “ George 
D'Esmonde has it ! ” 

George was sent for, and (without being 
told why or wherefore) was asked to tell 
its history. Now we know that he did 
not like to talk to strangers about this 
key; but the assurances given him that no 
idle curiosity prompted the request, and 
the manner of Dennis (whom he had ex- 
cellent reasons just now for propitiating) 
in giving them, unloosed his tongue, and 
he told the tale. Told it, not as he had 
done before in the twilight at the “ Wil- 
lows,” but with all its names, dates, aud 
particulars. The man who was found 
dying in that hut was no other than Hugh 
Desmond, and he lived long enough to 
narrate his own story, and to hear that of 
his son. The young man remembered well 
having been carried away from his home 
when he was a child, by a strange man on 
a horse and put on board a ship, where he 
was kindly treated by a woman who had 
lately lost her boy of about his age. A 
justice of the peace was sent for, and all 
this was taken down in writing. Did this 
Hugh Desmond say anything about the 
key? Yes, he bade his son keep it care- 
fully; and, as he -was much exhausted, put 
off further conversation till the morrow — 


A FAMILY TREE. 


which never came. He passed away in his 
sleep. 

“ So you know nothing as to what it 
means?” asked Dennis. 

“Absolutely nothing. My people have 
attached some superstitious value to it. 
That is all,” George answered him. 

“ On account of that vision or dream ? ” 

“ I suppose so. One may respect old 
traditions without believing in them,” he 
said carelessly. 

Then they let him read the book. 

Next, they talked it all over, and con- 
gratulated each other. 

Lastly, consternation fell upon them. 

If George D’Esmonde was the heir-at- 
law of Desmond’s son — and there w'as no 
doubt of this — Mrs. Tremayne, as heiress- 
at-law of his daughter, was portionless! 
And this, although but for her, George 
would never have got a clue to his rights! 
Terribly hard, this, on Mrs. Tremayne. 

So they sent for Spencer Saxon, and had 
it all over again for the third time. The 
Q. C., after having assured them that no- 
thing short of an Act of Parliament would 
put them to rights, proceeded to recom- 
mend what George had already made up 
his mind to do, i. e., to share and share 
alike, for, he argued the fact that Des- 
mond gave one key to each child (the 
third being put out of court by his 
last w r ords to Martha Denys, “ Beware the 
hand which holds the iron key!”), may 
fairly be taken to show what was the dis- 
position made in his will. 

“ And if they do this,” said Dennis, more 
as a statement than a question, “ they’re 
safe.” 

“I think,” replied the cautious Q. C., 
“ that if they don’t quarrel amongst them- 
selves, and hold their tongues, they will be 
as safe as — as they can be.” 

“ Now, Mr. Alexander,” said George 
Desmond, closing the book of the Trust, 
“ you see how all your premises were right, 
and all your conclusions wrong. We all 
think that you deserve immense credit for 
the way you worked your case out, and we 
leave you to form your own estimate of 
that noble man (pointing to John Dennis) 
who was about to sacrifice his fortune 


201 

sooner than betray the secret of his 
house.” 

“Sentiment, sir, sentiment!” was the 
sneering reply. “ Sir Stephen is not to be 
won over by fine words. JIow do we 
know' but that this agreeable meeting has 
not been planned beforehand? I mistrust 
surprises, Mr. D’Esmonde. I will form my 
own estimate of Mr. Dennis very shortly.” 
He drew a paper from his pocket-book as 
he spoke. I have here,” he said, aloud, 
“ an agreement signed by Sir Stephen 
Willford and by John Dennis, in these 
W’ords— 

“ ‘ Upon the case presented by H. Clay 
Alexander , on behalf of Sir Stephen Will- 
ford, Mr. Dennis will pay him a sum equal 
to the assessed value of the Grange , Hal- 
lowjield, and King's Morton properties , in 
full discharge of all claims' 

“ Did he know, when he wrote his name 
to this, that the heirs of Desmond w'ere in 
existence? If he did not, then his promise 
was a binding one. If he did, he tried to 
play us a trick, and deserves no pity. And 
observe, if you please, he does not bind 
himself to give up those estates, or even to 
redeem them. He agrees to pay us a sum 
equal to their assessed value, and this for a 
good consideration. Ah ! you are listening 
to me, Mr. Saxon, I am glad of that. For 
a good consideration, I repeat, to avoid 
litigation, w'hicli he could not meet with- 
out breaking the traditions of his family, 
which — to use his own words — w'ould be 
disastrous. What matters it in logic or 
morality that this pressure has been re- 
moved? I will grant, without prejudice, 
that it is removed. . How' does that alter 
our position? Why, it w'as his own pro- 
position to give us money instead of the 
land ! Had he arranged to make over the 
estates, it might have been different. Did 
he think it a good compromise when he 
made it? That is the question. Did he 
mean to carry it out when he made it? 
What is he going to do now? ” 

“ To your first question I reply, yes,” 
said John Dennis. “ To your second, yes; 
to your third, pay the money to the last 
shilling.” 

“ That I will never allow',” exclaimed 
George D’Esmonde, w'armly. 


202 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“ Or I.” This came as warmly from 
Mrs. Tremayne. 

“ I am afraid,” observed Saxon, taking a 
pinch of snuff, “ that we shall differ on the 
subject of consideration.” 

“I will not be sheltered under any law- 
yers’ quibble,” said Dennis. “ I did mean 
to pay the money, and have found means 
to do so. My signature has never been 
dishonored yet, and never shall be.” 

“ Are you in earnest ? ” Alexander asked, 
in a rather shaky voice. 

The categorical replies to his concluding 
questions had taken him aback, and what 
followed was lost upon him. 

“ In sober earnest. You have convinced 
me again, Mr. Alexander, and this time 
there will be no surprise,” said Dennis. 

“ What a man ! what a man!” exclaim- 
ed the judge, throwing his long arms over 
his head with that gesture of scaring 
wasps we know of, and sinking on an ot- 
toman. 

A great struggle was going on within 
him. The veins of his forehead rose in 
large blue knots and throbbed. He 
swayed to and fro, with his face bu- 
ried in his hands. He stamped like a 
pettish child. He wanted to come out of 
this affair with something to say against 
John Dennis, and he could not. He want- 
ed to let his admiration of that strict regard 
for honor — that almost sublime self-abne- 
gation — have vent, and he could not. 
There was a fiend fighting with the wreck 
of an honest mind, within him, and the 
contest was a fierce one— too fierce to last 
long. 

“ Listen, all of you! ” he cried, starting 
up, and looking as wild as we have ever 
seen him, “before the devil, I have cast 
out, takes unto himself fifty worse than 
lie, and makes a villain of me again ! 
Listen ! I will not go against that man — 
no, not for an army of Willfords. For 
that Stephen? Never! H e did cheat at 
cards; he confessed it w'hen he had drunk 
himself honest the day we met last at Mr. 
Saxon’s chambers. The wretched sot hic- 
coughed his delight at having ‘ done ’ — 
that was his elegant word — having done 
John Dennis twice over. He tried to 
bribe Mr. Tremayne, the miserable, stupid 


ass ! He attempted to play tricks with me — 
yes, with me ! He pretended that as he was 
to get money instead of lands, his bar- 
gain with me, for half of them, was off, and 
that he could pay me only what he pleased 
—the thief! I have done with him; I dis- 
card, I dispose, I will expose him. As for 
you” (turning to Dennis) “I give in. I am 
afraid of a man like you. If I were God, 
I’d strike blind an enemy such as I have 
been to you! Of course I knew that you 
were not bound to respect this rag ’’(tos- 
sing the agreement from him). “What 
was the basis of your promises ‘ The case 
presented by H. Clay Alexander. Well, 
that case was a fraud! Do you hear me? 
a fraud! The woman who brought home 
Charles Willford's son had a husband liv- 
ing when he married 7ier.” 

“Did your client know that?” asked 
Saxon. 

“ Yes, he did, I told him in your clerk’s 
room. That was why he consented to the 
compromise. Talk of dishonoring your 
signature!” (this to Dennis.) “it is only 
dishonored by being written within an 
inch of that scoundrel’s! Let others tell 
you how your honor is affected— I dare 
not say a word on that — but of this be 
sure, Stephen Willford shall stand brand- 
ded as a sharper, a cheat and a liar, if he 
ever troubles you on any other ground.” 

“ Your superior friend has some good left 
in him,” observed Spencer Saxon, when 
the judge had retired. 

“ Poor man ! yes,” said Mrs. Tremayne, 
“ he very nearly cried at the last; but 
where is Mr. Dennis?” 

“ I really believe he’s gone down to 
shake hands with him,” Percy replied. 

“ He is quite capable of doing so,” was 
Saxon’s comment, after another pinch. “ I 
have not yet made up my mind which is 
the most unreasonable creature, and the 
finest fellow in this romance — Hugh Des- 
mond in the beginning, or John Dennis at 
the end.” 

“ I think the order of the names in the 
first line of the old legend should be 
changed,” said George. It is Denys who 
has gone through for Desmond. 

“ I like it best as it is. Mrs. Tremayne 


A FAMILY TREE. 


208 


contends ‘going through 9 only gives me 
an idea of physical assistance, but true! 
what a big little word ‘ true Ms ! ” 

At this point John Dennis reappeared, 
looking shy. 

The Trernaynes took their leave; and 
Fanny adjourned with Grace to be told 
something, and John Dennis wanted ter- 
ribly to be alone, and think it all over, and 
over, and over — but George wouldn't let 
him. He fidgetted about the room, he 
turned over photographs he had seen fifty 
times before. He buttoned and unbut- 
toned his coat, till he half tore off the 
buttons. He set to work composing a 
speech, but no three consecutive words 
w r ould stick together when he tried to 
repeat them. So he blurted it out any 
how. The insatiable fellow was not con- 
tent with a moiety of eighteen thousand a 
year: he wanted something more. He 
wanted Grace. She had accepted him 
that morning under the Kensington Limes, 
“ if papa did not object,” and this was why 
the crafty creature was so willing to oblige 
“ papa” by telling all about the silver key. 
Poor little Gracy had had a hard day of it 
— a proposal (for which she was not wholly 
unprepared) four first-class surprises, and 
a glimpse at the old Mr. Alexander — were 
enough to try stouter nerves; but all’s 
well that ends well. 

Jack came in from Manchester just as 
they were going to dinner, tired, and in 
an ill humor; for he had bad news. Old 
Scott would neither dissolve or buy. 

“He pursed up his ugly mouth,” said 
Jack, “and said it was ‘ a very extraordi- 
nary proposition — very extraordinary’ — 
like an old poll parrot 1 They’ve got an ab- 
surd story down there that you’re to be 
made a peer, and he’s as jealous as a cat — 
confound him ! ” 

Then the day’s work (or at least half of 
it), had to be gone over for the fifth time. 

“What I can’t make out, dad,” said 
Jack, when the story had been brought 
down to the conversion of Mr. Alexander, 
“ is how you ever let that fellow into your 
confidence.” 

“ Consider for a moment, and you will. 

I thought he was on the right track— that 


somehow or other he and Willford had 
found the right Desmonds. When he first 
threw out a hint about trusts, I felt sure 
of it.” 

“ And so,” m vised Jack, “ he has got the 
iron key! He’ll make them pay smartly 
for that, I’ll be bound.” 

“ Why should they pay anything? They 
don’t want it.” 

“ What! — not to open the casket?” 

“ I hope that they will not open it,” said 
his father. 

“ Hope first then, that they may sud- 
denly become angels of light: no mortal 
man and woman could resist such a. temp- 
tation if they had the chance of gratifying 
it. But why should they not open it, 
dad?” 

“ Because they have come to a very fair 
and proper arrangement between them- 
selves which might be deranged if they 
pried' into that old casket. It is good to 
leave well alone, Jack. If Mr. Alexander 
were to drop his iron key into the middle 
of the Atlantic Ocean, I, for one, should be 
very well satisfied.” 

The judge had other uses for that key. 
He redeemed it from Sir Stephen accord- 
ing to contract; and he sent it with his 
“ compliments ” to Mr. D’Esmonde! 

This necessitated another family coun- 
sel, by which Dennis’ warning to leave 
well alone, and ^>ot open the casket, was 
received with a chorus of groans. 

“ Have it your own way,” he said. It’s 
your business now — thank God ! not mine ; 
only I warn you there may be disappoint- 
ment— there may be something in the 
casket to show how Hugh Desmond wish- 
ed the lands to be divided.” 

“ All the better if there is,” said D’Es- 
monde. 

“ You forget that their value has changed 
since his time. What was a fair division 
then, would not be a fair division now,” 
replied Dennis. “ Remember what Saxon 
said, ‘ hold your tongues, and don’t quarrel 
amongst yourselves, and you are safe.’ ” 

“ One would think it was another Pan- 
dora’s box,” Mrs. Tremayne observed with 
a smiling face. “Are we going to fight 
over the casket, Mr. D’Esmonde?” 

“ I think not,” he answered her. 


204 


A FAMILY TREE. 


“But I” broke in Fanny, “I will do 
battle to the death with everybody (except 
Mr. Dennis) who says we are not to open 
the casket. It’s downright wicked not to 
see what’s inside, now we have the keys.” 

So it was settled that they should all run 
down to Staffordshire by the early train 
next day; open the casket, have a picnic 
dinner at the Grange, and return by the 
mail. “ All,” included Spencer Saxon and 
Count Tasti. 

The squire’s “den” did not present a 
scene sufficiently imposing for the cere- 
mony of the day. The casket was carried 
in triumph into the dining-room and 
placed upon the table facing the legend of 
the house; which appeared to stand out* 
clearer than usual. 

“ Beware ! ” muttered Fanny in mock 
solemnity. “ Beware the hand that holds 
the iron key! That’s mine. Behold and 
tremble.” 

“ Now, please attend,” pleaded Dennis, 
“ or you’ll only hamper the locks, and 
waste the small chance you have of getting 
it open. It must be unlocked first by Mrs. 
Tremayne with the Gold Key, then by 
George D’Esmonde with the Silver Key; 
then locked by you, Miss Bright-eyes, with 
the Iron Key, when a fourth key-hole will 
appear; into which the Gold Key is to be 
pressed without turning it, and then the 
lid ought to rise by itsei/. 11 ’ 

After some considerable blowing into 
the gold key-hole, and picking it out with 
hair pins, the key, well lubricated, was 
introduced and turned. The silver lock 
was much more restive. The casket had 
to be placed on its back and oil poured in 
the key-hole; but by patience and perse- 
verance the key was worked round, and 
they all heard the bolt shoot back. 

“ Now, it’s my turn,” said Fanny, com- 
ing forward. The hand which held the 
Iron Key trembled. “ Wh— where do you 
suppose the other key-hole will appear? 
Will anything jump up, or — or go off— do 
you think? ” 

“ Judging by the past,” replied George, 
“ it will be time to look out for that in 
about three-quarters of an hour. Go on 
Fanny, if you want the honor and glory 
of trying it first.” 


She put the Iron Key in its lock, shut 
her eyes, gave it a push and a turn, and 
lo! round it went without any trouble. 
But nothing jumped up or went off. The 
club held by one of the dwarfs had moved 
slightly, and showed where the other and 
last key-hole might be. A little more 
picking and blowing and oiling, suffered 
to slip dwarf and all aside, and expose the 
last remaining lock. By this time the 
whole of the mechanism had got thor- 
oughly oiled, and the action of one part 
appeared to ease the rest. Mrs. Tremayne 
again applied the Gold Key, and then the 
lid of the casket rose slowly by itself, until 
it stood wide open before them. 

They all fell back and held their breath, 
in spite of themselves. No one liked to be 
the first to touch the contents, and all 
crowded forward to look at them, as 
though they were wild animals which 
might jump out and scratch. 

“Now I think I may step in,” said Sax- 
on, as soon as his eye caught the parch- 
ments, which he grasped and proceeded 
to unfold, as though they were the most 
ordinary pieces of sheep-skin. “ You will 
observe,” he said, “ that they are fastened 
in two bundles— this marked H, and this 
M. What is the meaning of H andM? 
Clearly Hugh and Maria. I was quite 
right, you perceive. His will was to divide 
equally.” 

“Aye, aye, aye!” muttered John Den- 
nis, half sorry, half vexed. 

“ 111 make a note, and tell you presently 
what is in the one parcel and what in the 
other,’ 4 Saxon continued; “for I suppose 
I am more accustomed to deeds than any 
one here.” 

So they left him to his work (after hav- 
ing locked the casket for the sake of un- 
locking it again and seeing the lid rise), 
and scattered till dinner-time. 


“ Dreaming? ” 

“ How you startled me!” 

“You” is Percy, and “me” is Fanny 
D’Esmonde, whom he found standing in 
the broad garden-path which ran round 
the house, and dreaming — day dreaming. 
Hence his salutation. 


A FAMILY TREE. 


205 


“ 1 suppose there are more ghosts than 
ever now ? ” 

“ You have not forgotten that silly 
speech? Yes, I suppose there are. This 
must be the window through which poor 
Sweetheart was shot; and yonder, away 
in what is now the rose-garden, is where 
that dear brave Tom Stevens seized Marco. 
Oh, how I wish I had lived in those 
days ! ” 

“ I am sorry to hear you say so.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because they were bad days, vicious 
days, days darkened by ignorance, days in 
which might was right, and justice bought 
and sold. Look at our own history ! ” 

“ I’m proud of it, Mr. Tremayne.” 

“So am I; and, being so, I don’t think 
much of an age which wanted to burn a 
Hugh Desmond for sorcery.” 

“ Do you know that George is going to 
drop the apostrophe and final e, and take 
back the old name? We are going to be 
Desmonds to the end of time, Mr. Tre- 
mayne.” 

“ I am glad to hear it. We, of the 
younger branch, will pay him all due re- 
spect as the head of the family.” 

“ Except for the name, you are as much 
Desmonds as we are — are you not?” 

“Certainly. I wonder what relations 
we are ? ” 

“ Twentieth cousins, ten times re- 
moved ! ” she laughed. 

“And, what is nearer still, friends, I 
hope ? ” 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“ Well, being cousins and friends, don’t 
you think we might be something less 
formal than Mr. Tremayne and Miss Des- 
mond ? ” 

“ What, Desmond and Tremayne, as 
though we were at school ? ” she asked, 
rounding her bright eyes. 

“No, not that. Your brother calls me 
* Percy ; ’ why shouldn’t you ? ” 

“ Then you’d call me Fanny ? ” she de- 
liberates. 

“ After a little practice, perhaps I might 
venture to do so,” he replies. 

They have not moved an inch. They 
stand in the shadow of the wing, each 
busy with something that will rue the day. 


He has got her fan, which she dropped 
when he “ startled ” her, and she a cloth- 
of-gold rose, which she has begun to pick 
to pieces deliberately. 

“ Well,” she replies, after a little con- 
sideration, “1*11 ask George.” 

“ No, no,” he breaks in, quickly; “you 
mustn’t, indeed ! — at least, not yet.” 

“ I always tell George — everything.” 

“ I wish I could mesmerise him, and ask 
something.” 

“ It wouldn’t be worth while.” 

“ Then one of two things must be — I am 
either a very unhappy man, or ” 

“ Well, go on.” 

“ Or you do not tell George everything 
— do you?” 

The sweet face is bent down now very 
close over the rose. 

“ Let us go in and see the casket again,” 
she murmurs. 

“ There is a casket ” (his voice has sank, 
and trembles) “in comparison with which 
that one ^ve saw to-day is poor and its 
contents valueless. Could George tell me 
if I may ever hope to open it? ” 

“ Who has the keys? ” she asks, shyly. 

“Ah! that is the question! Who has 
the keys? Will the only key I can em- 
ploy move the golden lock ? It is uncouth, 
unpolished, this key of mine; but made of 
honest metal, Fanny — dear Fanny! look 
up. The name of my key is Love, and 
the casket is your heart, my darling. Tell 
me if it will, if it may in time open it! ” 

“ It never has been locked — to you” she 
whispered. 

The division of Hugh Desmond’s titles 
— indicated by the tying up of the deeds in 
the casket — turns out to be a pretty fair 
one, even for these days. If anything, it 
is in favor of the Tremaynes, as they get 
the lion’s share of Hallowfield; but the 
owner of two centuries and a half ago 
never dreamed that “ye messuage and 
tenement known as ye Old Mill, at Morton 
of ye King,” would be wanted for a railway 
station, and that an acre of land at that 
end of the town would become worth ten 
acres at the Grange. There was nothing 
to quarrel over, and John Dennis was 
happy. 


206 


A FAMILY TREE. 


Troubles are gregarious, as Sir Stephen 
Willford discovered. He had not hurt 
John Dennis; Alexander had taken him 
at his word, and made him pay for his 
services; and his black eye would not get 
well. He was to be married in a week, 
and the delicately-blended shades of green, 
orange, and pink, which decorated the in- 
jured optic, would not fade away. Well, 
if the worst came to the worst, he’d have 
it painted. The worst did come, and was 
not to be painted over. 

On the very eve of the day when his 
splendid Bessie was to make him the hap- 
piest of baronets, that fickle damsel eloped 
with a duke — a Spanish duke, of noble 
mien and princely fortune — who subse- 
quently turned out to be a croupier at 
Monaco. 

“ Nada mas / nada mas ! Va caier la 
holla ! Zero negro 1”* 

Grace’s boy will be Desmond of the 
Grange (they have gone back to the old 
spelling) ; but as long as he lives, John 

° The croupier’s cry — “No more!” (betting) 
“no more! The ball is going to stop! Black 
Zero! ” 


Dennis will be master there. It is prob- 
able that the Tremaynes will buy Wliarn- 
stead House and Grounds ; for Sir Stephen, 
soured by Bessie’s faithlessness and cut by 
every one, has taken to drink, and dislikes 
the place — there are such a lot of snakes 
about there, he says. 

The casket stands where Gerty Bowring 
said it should be. It stands in the draw- 
ing-room, “ plain for all folks to see,” un- 
der a glass case ; and the time comes when 
a Hugh Desmond claps his chubby hands 
and screams with glee as the funny little 
man with the club starts a oneside, and 
the lid rises up “ all of its own self” when 
grandpa turns the iron key. 

And thus the Family Trees, rooted in 
Sin, Sorrow, and Death, grow up side by 
side, and the Sun of Love and happiness 
ripens delicious fruit upon their topmost 
boughs, the which, mingling quivering 
leaves in the night breeze, may give out 
some sound, which to the ear of Fancy 
seems like the old legend — 

SLette Besmonti for Bengs goe throng!) 

0nti Bongs to Besmonti be true 
Xoe Bengs or Besmonti bill rue.” 


THE END. 


NOVELS PUBLISHED BY ESTES & LA UR I A T y 
301 Washington Street , Boston . 


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A Rose in June. By Mrs. Oliphant, author of “Story of Val- 

entine and his Brother,” “ Squire Arden,” “ For Love and Life,” “ Innocent.” 1 vol. 

8vo. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 50 cts. 

*** “In ‘A Rose in June ’ Mrs. Oliphant is at her very best again. The book is 
full of character, drawn with the most delicate of touches.” — Athenceum. 

“A pleasant novel, agreeably told. Mrs. Oliphant is accomplished in her art; her 
knowledge of the instrument w’ith which she has to deal, and of the audience for whom 
she plays upon it, was never more thoroughly exhibited than in her latest work, ‘ A Rose 
in June.’ ” — Observer. 

“ One of the sweetest, most charming, and most natural stories which that popular 
writer has given us.” — Boston Journal. 


NOVELS PUBLISHED BY ESTES & LAURIAT, 
301 Washington Street , Boston. 


Broken Chains. Translated by Frances A. Shaw, from the 

German of 15. Werner, author of “Good Luck,” &c. 1 vol. Svo. Cloth, §1.25; 

Paper, 75 cts. 

*** “ It has spirit and action, united with power and depth of feeling. The characters 
are well delineated and strongly drawn, and the plot is well constructed and carried out.” 
— Transcript . 

“ The plot is highly interesting, and is well developed, while an art atmosphere per- 
vades the work, that shows both refinement and aesthetic appreciation on the part of the 
writer. The style is strong and vigorous, and contains scenes of great power.” — Ga- 
zette . 

Good Luck. By the author of " Broken Chains.” l vol. 8vo. 

Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 75 cents. 

*** “An attractive and fascinating volume, with highly dramatic characters, clearly 
drawn and well sustained throughout, and containing many pages of absorbing interest. 
The translation is graceful and natural, one of the happy kind that makes us forget that 
the story was first written in a foreign tongue.” — Enquirer . 

“ I began to read the proof-sheets last evening, and was compelled by the interest of 
the story to read into the small hours.” — L. C. M. 

Not Easily Jealous, l vol. 8vo. Price, Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 

75 cts. 

*** “ Some English travellers, meeting in Switzerland, form intimacies which are 
destined to influence their whole future lives. The author of ‘ Not Easily Jealous * 
weaves around this nucleus a tissue of romantic adventure which will pleasantly beguile 
many leisure hours.” — Transcript . 

“ This ‘ Not Easily Jealous ’ has some bright and sparkling characters in it. There 
is not much plot or incident in it; but the interest is well sustained, and it is written in 
such a taking sort of style as to make it very fascinating.” — People. 

Jocelyn’s Mistake. By Mrs. J. K. Spender, author of "Her 

Own Eault,” “Brothers in Law,” &c. 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 75 cts. 

*** “ Mrs. Spender’s English is unusually good, and she has learned the art of 
working her opinions on men and things into the web of her story, instead of merely in- 
tercalating homilies. . . . The Jocelyn of the book is very skilfully drawn. ... It rises 
in type and diction far above the ephemeral stories of the season.” — Academy . 

“ We may safely say the perusal of this book can but be productive of good.” — 
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The Lost Despatch. Translated from the German of Fried- 

rich Friedrich, by L. A. Williams. 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25; Paper, 50 cts. 

%* “ Lovers of pen-pictures and florid writing will not find any of their favorite style. 
There is no padding, no burning sensation, no bigamy, nor divorce. But there is a well 
constructed story, well told, and also some finely-drawn characters. The interest, too, 
is well sustained. * The Lost Despatch ’ will serve to pass a couple of hours pleas- 
antly enough; and what is more to the purpose, in these days of filthy novels, it may 
be read by all without fear or hesitation. ” — N. Y. Globe . 






































































































































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